ILLUMINATION
by SayItRight
Summary: Two months after his debut, Clark finally takes a day off, during which he and Lois discuss the new man in their lives, and further address their past, present, and future intimacy. Set post-"Pandora." Sequel to "REVELATION," Prequel to "CONSUMMATION."
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** ILLUMINATION [Sequel to REVELATION, Prequel to CONSUMMATION]

**Status:** Complete

**Author:** SayItRight

**Pairing:** _Smallville_'s Lois Lane and Clark Kent

**Summary:** Two months after his debut, Clark finally takes a day off, during which he and Lois discuss the new man in their lives, and further address their past, present, and future intimacy. [Set post-"Pandora"] [Romance/Drama]

**Rating:** PG-13 to NC-17, TV-14 to TV-MA - Not for obscenity or vulgarity, but for occasional mild profanity, for some suggestive language and dialogue, for varying degrees of sensuality, and for sexual situations. (I will assign an appropriate rating to each chapter.)

**Warning:** The following contains the depiction of a physical relationship between consenting adults. That depiction varies from subtle to explicit, from modest to mature. If you need me to be any clearer about what I just wrote, then this story ain't for you, darlin'. Mmkay?

**Disclaimer:** With the sole exception of this original story, I own nothing. I claim nothing. I am not profiting. I intend no infringement.

**Acknowledgments:** To the _Smallville_ writing staff, to Tom Welling, and to Erica Durance: Thank you, thank you, and thank you for establishing such a rich foundation for Lois and Clark. To** That'llShowEm**: Thank you for the feedback that inspired this piece. And to **hellokitty**: Thank you for helping me to get a handle on my themes and motifs.

**Dedication:** This story is for all those over at Kryptonsite who put up with me throughout Season 9, letting me talk their ears off, letting me pick their brains, and offering me invaluable insights and opinions on _Smallville_'s onscreen and offscreen developments. To **amberdawn**, **asha14**, **BadToad**, **DA_Champion**, **DavidB1111**, **Ella**,** Jack-El49**, **liana**, **morrigan01**, **Terrific_T**, and **utguardian**: Mwah!

**Continuity:** This story is fairly self-contained, and thus requires no knowledge of my two previous stories. All the same, "Illumination" is a companion piece. It follows the events in "Revelation," and it precedes the events in "Consummation." As "Consummation" was written first, with a broad stroke, and as a standalone, a few minor aspects of that story may seem out of joint with this one. But, in the most meaningful ways, "Revelation," "Illumination," and "Consummation" are a cohesive series. Also, "Illumination" contains a number of nods - some more, some less obvious than others - both to Superman in various non-_Smallville_ media, and to the events on _Smallville_ itself, from "Disciple" to "Salvation." But, strictly speaking, this story is set post-"Pandora," and so, everything after "Pandora" should be disregarded.

**Author's Note:** (1) "Illumination" concerns the physical dialogue, the physical dynamic, and the physical relationship between Lois and Clark, which have long been of interest to me. It is meant to portray what _Smallville _itself cannot, given the constraints of when and where it airs, and given the constraints of its own narrative. Also, "Illumination" is meant to fill what I believe to be a bit of a void in the fanfiction that exists that depicts the couple's physicality, but does not necessarily excavate, examine, and attempt to explain it.

(2) This piece is as much my love letter to the Lois and Clark up until and through "Pandora," as it is my farewell letter to the Lois and Clark after "Pandora," whose respective characterizations and whose relationship with one another disappointed me in some respects. Accordingly, both my admiration for many of the things that preceded the latter half of Season 9 and my concerns with a few of the things that occurred from "Disciple" onward are woven throughout this narrative - to varying degrees and to varying ends, of course.

**Lastly: **Please comment. Please critique. Please keep me honest. I highly value feedback of any and all kinds, and about anything from the content to the prose. And I am happy to discuss this story as it progresses.

Now, without further ado…

* * *

ILLUMINATION

* * *

_[Rating: PG-13 - For some suggestive language, and for some sensuality.]_

**CHAPTER 1**

He wakes to the loss of her warmth, to the feeling of her slipping out of his embrace. "Where are you going?" he softly asks, reaching out to wrap his arm back around her waist.

"I knew I wasn't going to make it out of the bed."

"Then why are you trying?"

She lets him pull her back to him, and gently teases, "How is it that I can almost always sleep through you taking off at night, but I can't even reach the edge of the bed without you waking up?"

"Because I can't sleep without you."

She lightly runs her fingers along the arm he's draped across her stomach, and suggests, "Or, maybe you just refuse to."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he smiles, holding her closer to him and breathing in the scent of her hair.

"Yes, you do."

"No. I don't." He shifts his weight, moving from behind her. She turns onto her back and drapes her arms around his neck as he positions himself across and above her.

"Liar," she teases, while he begins brushing the backs of his fingers across her cheek and chin. "You set that internal alarm of yours to go off the second you feel me moving away from you."

"That's an interesting theory," he smirks, moving his hand from her cheek to play his fingers along the collar of her partially unbuttoned shirt. "Do you even bother to buy your own pajamas anymore?"

"Only bottoms."

He chuckles, and runs his hand down to the base of her throat, across her chest, and just underneath the placket. "Mind if I ask where the tops come from?"

"From the alien that occasionally invades my bed."

His smile grows and he plays along. "A little, green man, huh?"

"Mm-hmm. Just like in the movies: bald, bulbous head, and thin, toneless body."

He rubs his hand back and forth across her skin, entranced as always by the delicate rises and falls of her chest. "Doesn't sound like your type," he absently replies.

Smirking, she remarks, "That's only because some pissy little Jedi princess beat me to my type."

At the mention of her fondness for someone else, his chest and throat tighten. He starts to argue his own merits, but manages to stop himself, knowing that she'll just find some way to one-up him. Swallowing what he knows to be unfounded jealousy, he manages to take the edge off of his tone as he replies, "So, rather than pursue the scoundrel of your dreams, you've settled for…?"

"E.T., by comparison," she answers, never one to miss an opportunity to mock him. "But I'm learning to live with the disappointment."

He scoffs, and raises his eyebrows, thoroughly displeased with her assessment of himself. But, determined to not allow her the satisfaction of a wounded reply, he returns his attention to the sight of her nestled comfortably in one of the many items she's added to her collection of his clothes lately. Calmly, he asks, "And does that entail wearing these shirts for your own benefit? Or for the wrinkly, waddling stump's?"

"Mine, mostly," she replies, watching his eyes trail across the lines where the flannel material ends, and her exposed skin begins. "But it helps that he enjoys seeing me in them - even if he'll never admit it."

"Just my opinion, Lane," he offers, sliding the fabric away from her shoulder and lowering his head to the curve of her neck, "I think he'd rather see this one off of you."

She laughs, deeply and throatily, as his lips brush across her skin. "Tell me I'm right."

"About what?" he murmurs against her collarbone.

"Don't play stupid."

As he begins dotting his lips down the expanse bared by the open vee of her top, she winds her fingers into his hair, and, getting a firm grip, pulls him away from her to meet her gaze.

"Tell me."

"Make me."

Accepting his dare, she smirks, and guides him down to her. He parts his lips, awaiting her kiss, but she breezes past his mouth and lightly, chastely presses her lips to his cheek.

He hesitantly chuckles, unsure of what her touch portends. Pulling back to look at her, he masks his apprehension, and challenges, "Is that the best you can do?"

"No," she tells him, shifting her body completely underneath his and easing her legs apart, letting him settle between her thighs. He questions her with his eyes, and, in response, she turns his head and eases him down to her, until the side of his face is just above her. Letting her breath wash over his ear, she whispers, "But it's all I'm going to do if you don't cave."

At the sound of her suggestive tone, a shudder runs from his chest, down his arms and legs.

"I felt that," she taunts.

He clears his throat, knowing that he's lost the upper hand. Turning his head to meet her gaze, he quietly concedes, "You're right."

"Go on," she smirks, lifting her legs and wrapping them around his bare back.

"I don't want -"

"- Refuse," she corrects.

"I _refuse_ to sleep without you."

"And…?"

"_And_, I make sure that I wake up when I sense you leaving."

She gently giggles at him, and he doesn't resist the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Even when it's at his expense, even when he can't reciprocate, her laughter never fails to please him. If only for the sake of seeing her like this, in the dim glow of the morning, with her hair messed and her skin bright from rest, he wishes he told her sooner.

Before revealing to her the truth about himself and before explaining to her exactly what she means to him, he could tell that no matter the effort he, as either of himselves, put toward her happiness, there was still no denying her sense that something was amiss between them. Whenever he made up some lie to excuse himself from one of their dates or whenever he redirected the conversation during one of their phone chats, he could always see the disappointment in her eyes and bearing, or hear it in her voice. He could sense her reconciling herself to being compartmentalized, and to never knowing and having all of him.

But three months ago, as they stood in an open field, on a candlelit dance floor, his honesty put an end to that sadness and resignation. That night, as she set aside her ambivalence long enough to offer him the assurance of what could have been their last kiss, he knew beyond a doubt that no matter whether she decided to stay with him, she'd always be certain of the depths of his adoration and his devotion.

Since then, no matter the situation and no matter her mood, she's been perfectly at ease with him - perfectly secured in the knowledge of his investment both in her and in their relationship. And lying with her in her bed, seeing her so full of warmth and light, with nothing between them but affection and truth, he can't help but smile at the woman whom he has every hope of someday asking to spend her life with him.

"You're beautiful, Lois," he silently mouths, feeling her heart flutter underneath his fingertips as she reads his lips.

"It's way too early for mush, Clark," she manages through her mirth.

After several long moments, she calms back down. Hugging him tighter to her, she shifts her hips, and he lets her turn them until she's lying on top of him, pressing her hands into the bed on either side of his head, holding herself up.

"I caved," he reminds.

"Yes, you did," she indulges, as he brushes her hair away from her face. "Close your eyes."

He does as told, focusing on the tenderness emanating from her as she leans down to him. She lightly sweeps her lips back and forth across his, but his anticipation soon gets the better of him. Inclining his mouth upward, he tries to capture her kiss, only to be disappointed when she moves out of his reach. And his eyes fly open in surprise as she tells him, "I'm getting up now."

"What?" he asks, feeling her back away.

"We have a long day ahead of us, Smallville. I need to get up."

"No, you don't," he denies, reaching around her waist and pulling her back on top of him.

She smiles, amused by his refusal to let her go. "Yes, I do."

"Lois," he groans, "we've hardly spent any quality time together since the debut. And now you wanna get out of bed? Early? The sun's not even up."

"Yes, it is."

Not even bothering to check the light coming in around the borders of her dark curtains, he insists, "It's not far enough up."

"Stop pouting," she tells him, brushing her lips across the line of his jaw. "You promised you'd let me spoil you today."

Still frowning, he begins massaging her back as he complains, "I know. But, Lois -"

"- And you promised me that because after two months of flying off to every corner of the globe and doing everything possible to establish your new persona, you can understand all the reasons why you need to take a break," she reminds, dotting kisses along his cheeks and temples. "So, while your fellow costumed comrades take care of the rest of the world, I get to take care of you - that's what you agreed to."

"I only agreed on the condition that I get to spend an extra night over here. You're the one who failed to mention that abandonment would be involved," he points out.

Nuzzling the soft indent behind his ear, "I can't spoil you if I stay here."

"As a matter of fact, spoiling me is _exactly_ what you'd be doing by staying here."

She lowers her lips to his neck, and smiles, "Sweet as that notion is, it's not gonna work."

He sighs, knowing there's no way of changing her mind. But, deciding to at least try, he whispers, "Lois?"

"Hmm?" she mumbles, playfully nibbling along the strong sinews of his throat.

"Let me kiss you."

"No," she smirks against his skin, immediately identifying his tactic. "If I let you start, then you won't stop, and neither will I. And nothing will be get accomplished today."

"…I don't see it that way."

At the sound of his hesitance, she pauses, and then raises her head to look him in the eye.

"It's just..." he quietly begins. "This whole media storm… You jet-setting nonstop across the country for interviews… Us only ever spending the odd hour or two together in your hotel rooms or on our lunch breaks…" He trails off, unsure of how to make his point.

Sensing his indecision, she warmly offers, "I'm listening, Smallville."

Absorbing the comfort of her voice, he tries again, "It's just that things have finally calmed down a bit, and we can finally spend some time together that doesn't have to do with the Planet or, well, _the_ planet… And I can't think of anywhere that I'd rather spend that time than right here - with you."

Leaning down and running her lips across his forehead, she teases, "Even E.T. was never this vague."

Her taunt strikes the nerve for which she was aiming, provoking him. Goaded away from his timidity, he moves his hands underneath her shirt, and presses against the area of her lower back that she never resists, telling her, "I can be clearer."

She shudders, and takes in a sharp breath at the feel of his kneading touch.

"Stay," he entreats, inclining his mouth to kiss her neck.

"You know," she half whimpers, as his lips make contact with her skin, "as much as you're not gonna like hearing this: This is not the morning that I had in mind -"

Trailing up along the side of her throat, "- What'll it take to get you to stop talking?"

She swallows a sigh and suppresses the urge to press her hips forward. If it weren't for the plans she made for them and for the promise that she made to herself, she would readily grant his wish. But she can't ignore the fact that there's more to consider than just the appeal of spending hours on end letting him dote on her. Swallowing, she grasps for her bearings, and attempts, "More than that. Besides, you need new clothes -"

"- I need you," he murmurs into her ear, slipping his fingertips just underneath the hem of her boxer shorts.

She smiles at his sentiment, but tries again, "It's not my fault that your overtime has led to all this extra bulk and…rippliness."

Brushing his lips against her lobe, "I thought you liked all my extra bulk and 'rippliness.'"

"I didn't say I -"

"- Then, stop -" - rubbing his fingers low on her spine - "- talking."

As a flush of warmth spreads through her, she exhales a quiet moan and reflexively rocks her hips into him. Taking advantage of her distraction, he trails his kisses across her cheek and down her jawline.

"Clark," she shakily manages, anticipating his destination.

He ignores her weak protest and continues his attention to her lower back. But as his lips sweep up her chin, she feels the beginnings of his response to her against the front of her hip. And more tellingly, she notices him subtly recoil as he feels the very same thing. His reaction cuts through her haze, reminding her of why she long ago resolved to handle him and his misgivings, especially the ones he's most reluctant to articulate, with care - something that she can't possibly do in the midst of their current circumstances, with so much still hanging over their heads.

Feeling his breath nearing her mouth, she gathers herself, and lets him press against her. Reciprocating, she parts his lips with hers, and whimpers. He returns her needy exhale, and she finally gets the response she's looking for as he lets her go and reaches up to wind his fingers into her hair. Taking advantage of his focus on her mouth, she pushes her hands into the mattress, and slips out of their kiss and away from his embrace.

"Lois," he complains, trying to sit up and pursue her.

"Unh-uh," she discourages, poking a finger into his chest and directing him back onto the bed.

As she shifts out from under the covers and into a seated position next to him, he starts to wrap his arms around her hips, but she warns, "Hands off."

He lets out a sulking groan and relents, dropping his hands onto his stomach and glaring at her. "Why?"

"Because we have a lot on the docket today."

"None of which I agreed to."

She smirks, resting a hand on his chest and aimlessly tracing her fingers along his skin. "What if I told you that I have surprises for you?"

"I'd tell you that I'm in awe every moment that I spend with you."

"Save the sweet talk, superhero. It won't help."

Attempting a different tack, he turns onto his side and leans up enough to press his lips to her knee.

"Clark -"

"- You said, '_Hands _off,'" he reminds, touching his lips to her other knee.

Smirking, and slightly shaking her head, she concedes to his logic.

He trails soft kisses up along the tops of her thighs, and breathes his words across her skin, asking, "What if I offer you something in return? We could do a Harry Potter movie marathon, and order in as much greasy take-out as you want. I won't give you grief about either."

She smiles, letting him continue his light touches, but maintains, "You're getting spoiled today, whether you like it or not."

"I'm alone in a room with an amazing woman. I'm as spoiled as I'll ever be."

Running her hand along his shoulders and the back of his neck, "You really aren't as charming as you think you are."

"Yes, I am," he replies, brushing his lips up along the sides of her leg, until he reaches the fabric of her boxers. Sitting up a bit more, he lifts a hand to push the bottom hem of her shirt up just enough to expose the skin of her stomach.

As she feels his lips press against her waist, she jests, "Should I even be surprised that your idea of a constructive day off involves nothing but staying confined to my apartment?"

"Probably not," he murmurs, making his way across the front of her torso. "I've missed you, Sweetheart."

"And you'd like to spend the entire day showing me how much?"

"Mm-hmm." Against the curve of her hip, he smiles, "Or longer, if you'd like."

"Cute."

"Thank you," he replies, trailing his lips across her stomach, just above her boxers. "Is that a yes?"

"Not even close," she smirks, pressing her hand against his chest and pushing him away from her and back onto the bed.

He lets out another pained groan, and asks, "Is this some kind of cruel and unusual punishment?"

"What exactly would I be cruelly and unusually punishing you for?"

"I don't know. Talking in my sleep?" he suggests, resting an arm across her lap and rubbing her hip.

She grants his unspoken request and scoots closer to him. "You only talk in your sleep when I ask you a question."

"Well, did I give you an answer that you didn't like?"

"No."

Resting his free hand at the base of her spine, "But you did ask me something?"

"I asked you to tell me a story."

He smiles, "Really? Which one did I tell you?"

"Some Kryptonian fairytale."

"Did it help you go back to sleep?" he asks, running circles across the small of her back.

"Yes."

"So you're not mad at me about that?"

She smirks, and begins tracing his shield across his chest. "I didn't say I was mad at you in the first place."

"Did I hog the covers or something?"

"You never hog the covers."

"So why am I in the doghouse?"

"Is this how you deal with all of your enemies? You annoy them to death?"

"I _am_ in the doghouse."

"If you say that one more time, then, yes, you will be."

He laughs a bit, amused by her threat, knowing there's no bite to it. After waiting for her to finish the "S" in the middle of the imaginary crest, he lowers his voice, and quietly says, "Lois?"

"Yes, Clark."

"Kiss me."

She smiles and leans down. Deliberately misunderstanding him, she presses her lips to his chest, just above his heart, and then leans back up to quirk an eyebrow at him.

"Alright," he sighs. "I accept defeat."

"Took you long enough," she grins, rubbing her kiss into his skin.

"So what are we doing today?"

She shifts a bit on the bed, trying to contain her enthusiasm, but still ends up giddily exclaiming, "We're going shopping!"

"Lois -" he groans.

"- Don't bother pouting," she interrupts, waving off his initial protest, "because no matter how much you do, I will just ignore you."

As he heeds her warning, he watches as she gleefully leans over to her bedside table, pulls open the drawer that she long ago forbade him from ever going near, and starts rummaging through what he's sure is an unorganized mess.

As she continues her search, she buoyantly rambles, "You have no idea how excited I am! Oh, my god, we're going to get you all kinds of stuff! Just because you have to be incognito as 'Clark Kent, the everyman,' doesn't mean that you should be dressing like a total fashion victim. Which is basically what you've been doing for the past few months, and I'm sick of it. You need a style intervention. Thank god you have me around for these things."

He chuckles at her exhilaration and her exaggeration as she finds what she's after, closes the drawer, and quickly resituates herself next to him.

"You took notes?" he snickers, referring to the small pad of paper in her hand.

"Of course I took notes," she scoffs. "This is important. We need to be precise."

Smiling, he drapes his arm back over her lap and gingerly runs his fingers along her waist, letting her have the floor.

Emphasizing with her free hand and referring to her list, she explains to him, "Okay, here are the guidelines:

"Number One: Theme. We need to get your workdays away from business-casual and closer to business-formal, and we need to get your off-days away from casual and closer to dressy-casual. I'm thinking very timeless, very classic, very geek chic for you. Nothing too trendy and nothing too memorable. So no argyles or plaids. But still, very put-together and very earnest. Solids, mostly. And we'll cross the pinstripes bridge when we get there.

"Number Two: Color Scheme. No more white shirts. They're plain, but they also exaggerate your size, when what we really need to do is slim you down. So that means darker stuff up top, where you're the biggest, and more monochromatic ensembles. Nothing that'll pop and nothing that'll suggest red or blue, of course. What we're going for are neutral palettes. Lots of taupes, tans, beiges, grays, and blacks - those sorts of things.

"Number Three: Fit. That slouchy crap that you've been wearing is totally useless, especially since it makes you look like way more of a nerd than you already are, regardless of the glasses. And a nerd your size is bound to draw attention to himself eventually. So, we're gonna do layers galore! Plenty of vests, and sweaters, and jackets. The kind of stuff that'll look good on you, but will still play down this gorgeous body of yours…"

At the sound of the matter-of-fact tone of what she didn't even intend as a compliment, his lips quirk into a small smile. Being her pet project for the day, he reasons, is a small price to pay for getting to see her so energetic and so eager about him.

After she's finished talking to him in a language that he hardly understands and then tossed the notepad onto the nightstand, just beside a glass of water and a box of tissues, she calms down enough to list their other activities. "Then," she says, "we're gonna go see that god-awful biopic that you haven't been able to shut up about. And if we make an early-enough screening, we should have plenty of time to drop your stuff off at the farm and visit Mrs. K. for a couple hours. Oh! And we can even do a runway show in the living room, so that she can see all of your new outfits -"

"- Actually," he gently interrupts, before she gets too carried away, "Mom told me that I'm not allowed anywhere near the farm today. She pretty much packed my overnight bag for me and kicked me out last night."

"Why?" she wonders, disappointed. "She didn't mention that she'd be busy when I talked to her yesterday morning."

"She doesn't explain these things to me," he shrugs. "She just said, 'Honey, I'm sure you and Lois have plenty that you need to do in the city.' I tried to tell her that we both cleared our days, but she insisted, so I left it alone."

She thinks for a moment, considering what she's sure was a hint of some kind. After a moment longer, the obviousness of what his mother was trying to suggest to him occurs to her, and she can't help chuckling a bit at the realization.

Confused by her reaction, he asks, "What?"

"Nothing," she assures him, trying to think of an explanation that won't embarrass him, but won't amount to a lie either. "It's just nice that Mrs. K. cares so much about us."

"Yeah, it is," he smiles, taking her reply at face value.

"Anyway," she says, running her fingers across his chest and shoulders, "we can just hang out here for a while after your movie. Maybe catch the second half of the game, if it's not already a blowout. And then…you have a date to get to."

Having figured the topic would come up sooner or later, he scoffs, "Not happening."

"You said you'd think about it."

"I did think about it. And I've decided: I'm not going to dinner with your new boyfriend."

"He's not my -" She stops herself short, accepting that she won't get anywhere with him just now, and tables their argument for later. "You know what? Never mind." She clears her throat and waits, letting the moment pass. Noticing the tension in the muscles of his chest, she leans down and presses light kisses to his temples and cheeks. When she feels him relax and sees his eyes fall closed, she rests her forehead against his, and whispers, "Go back to sleep."

"My solar battery is fully charged," he proudly reports. "I don't actually need to sleep."

"That doesn't mean you can't still enjoy your dreams."

"I guess I'll see you there, then."

She smiles, and teases, "Just keep it PG."

"I always do," he tells her. "And what will you be up to out here?"

"Making you breakfast."

He opens his eyes and tries to restrain a laugh, but fails. "You're supposed to be spoiling me. Not poisoning me."

Leaning up and away from him, she rejoins, "Shove it, Smallville."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. That was a cheap shot," he quickly apologizes, covering her hand on his chest with both of his. "I'm sure it'll be great."

"You're handling me."

"I'm not handling you."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not," he placates, rubbing her palm and forearm.

She peers down at his large hands massaging away her indignation, and then looks back up at him. "That's not working."

"I didn't expect it to," he replies, indulging her lie. Switching gears, he appeases, "It's incredibly sweet of you to want to cook for me. And no matter what you make, I know I'll love it."

She smiles, picking up on how careful he was to not say that he actually expects his meal to be any good. Feigning anger a bit longer, she quips, "Big, dumb alien."

He returns her smile, content to let her have the last word, and closes his eyes again. "How long will you be?"

"At least a couple hours. I'm gonna go for a run first. Then, I'll shower, and go get started in the kitchen."

"And you won't even let me sit and watch?"

"The shower?"

"You know that's not what I meant."

"Too bad," she replies. Leaning forward and pressing a final kiss to his mouth, "You may have gotten a yes."

His lips stretch into a slight smile as she leans around to the side of his face. Brushing her lips across the outline of his ear, she hums the first few cords to one of his favorite songs. As she quietly begins reciting the lyrics, he warms at her gesture, surprised that she's willing to sing without him asking, but even more surprised that she learned the words just for him.

He relaxes further into her bed, breathing in her scent all around him, and letting her voice wash over him.

As his consciousness falls away, she kisses his cheek, slides her hand from under his, and rises from the bed. After tying her hair up and changing into her winter running gear, she takes one final look at him to ensure that he's resting soundly. Satisfied that he is, she smiles, slips out of the room, and quietly closes the door behind her.

…


	2. Chapter 2

_[Rating: R - For occasional mild profanity, for some suggestive language and dialogue, for some sensuality, and for some sexuality.]  
_

**CHAPTER 2**

The sensation of her lips on his coaxes him from his dream, away from flickering light playing across a swathe of red. She pulls back from him and he opens his eyes, breathing in the lingering scents of her shampoo and conditioner, and pursuing her.

"Welcome back," she smiles, moving further out of his reach.

He groans, clearing the sleep from his voice and the image from his mind, and complains, "It's been three hours."

"How do you know that?" she asks, granting him a quick kiss.

"I can feel it," he smiles. And then, he quickly adds, "Like a Jedi."

She chuckles at his pride in his abilities, and at his attempt to overcome the unflattering contrast she drew a little while ago between him and his imaginary adversary. But, still unwilling to give him an inch, she replies, "Even a Jedi can't make the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs."

"That's only because Jedi make honest livings," he counters, noticing the strap of her camisole-style tank top as it falls off of her shoulder.

As he reaches up to push the thin material back into its proper place, she retorts, "And because the only vessel you can pilot is your body."

In response to her dig, his face falls and his hand stops on her shoulder, and she gently laughs at him.

"If it makes you feel any better," she teases, "you are taller than he is."

"I hate you," he grouses, already contemplating his next attempt at undermining her infatuation with a man whose only real crime is having a longer-established claim on her affections than he does.

Satisfied with his adjustment of her tank top, he runs his hand down her arm, already missing the exposed skin that's sure to be covered by the time she finishes getting dressed for their outing.

Still giggling at his resentment, and intuiting his unhappiness at the prospect of her wearing more than just an undershirt all day, she reaches forward to rest a hand on the side of his face, and rubs away his frown. Changing the subject to one less likely to upset him, she informs, "I got a couple texts from Bart while you were out. He asked how your day's going."

"This early?" he wonders, accepting the distraction. "You weren't mean to him, were you?"

"Nah, Bart's alright. We kind of understand each either, I think." Tracing her fingers along the strong lines of his jaw, cheek, and nose, she impishly adds, "I took a picture of you and sent it to him."

"While I was sleeping?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Lois," he grumbles, imagining paper copies of the image plastered all over Watchtower, "if he forwards that to everyone, I'll never live it down."

"I'm pretty sure he'll keep it to himself," she replies, fighting back a smirk.

Confused by the tone of her response, he asks, "Why?"

She leaves his question unanswered as she rises from her seat, and goes to pull back the window curtains. The morning light rushes into the room, and she smiles, watching him deeply inhale and subtly swell with vigor.

As the initial tingling feeling of the rays hitting his skin subsides, he forgets his question, and watches her head for the bedroom door. Getting his first decent look at the dark brown tresses hanging down her back, he doesn't bother to mask his disappointment as he complains, "I could've helped with your hair."

"Next time," she promises, and disappears out of the room and down the hall.

He sits up and scoots back to lean against the headboard, assuming that he's supposed to wait for her to come back. After a few minutes, he gets restless, and his attention wanders to her bedside table. Regarding the drawer, he wonders what about its contents warrants it being off-limits, especially when nothing else about her or the space she occupies is. There must be a good reason, he supposes. But then again, maybe there isn't, and maybe she'd tell him if he just asks outright. He'd hate to upset her, though, should her reasons be genuine and should his curiosity be deemed both rude and unwelcome.

Setting aside his tangential thinking, he throws back the sheets and comforter, and starts to move towards the edge of the bed. But before his feet touch the carpet, the sound of her voice addressing him triggers his hearing.

"Smallville," he hears her warn, "if I get back in there and you're anywhere but in that bed, I'm gonna kick your ass. And don't even think about putting on a shirt."

He chuckles, and shakes his head, taking from the ambient sounds of clinking dishes belying her voice that she's in the kitchen. Next to flying, his hearing has become her favorite of his powers, mostly because she can make unilateral threats, requests, or idle flirtatious comments whenever she wants. The first time she toyed with activating it, he was stepping out of the shower at the farmhouse when he heard her say his name, and then ask him to stop by her apartment before work. With the memory of the ear-to-ear grin that spread across her lips when he opened her front door a short while later still fresh in his mind, he moves back towards the headboard and takes a deep breath, determined to not look impatient when she returns.

A few moments later, she enters the bedroom carrying a bed tray full of foods and drinks.

His eyes fixed on the bounce and sway of her long, lush locks, he asks, "How'd you know I was about to come find you?"

"Because you're just that predictable," she quips, resting the tray over his thighs. "Breakfast is served."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"I like your hair like this," he tells her, taking advantage of her proximity and running a hand through the loose, unkempt waves that only air-drying could leave. "Will you wear it down today?"

"If you want me to," she smiles, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"I do."

"Then I will."

She leans back up and her hair falls away from his fingers. Reluctantly, he takes his eyes from her, and then lowers his gaze to his meal.

"It's all edible," she assures, as he closely examines the items. "The banana-nut pancakes are Mrs. K.'s recipe. But I came up with the banana-pecan garnish. There's caramel in it, though, so I left it on the side because I didn't know if it'd be too sweet for you. The hash is all mine, too. And it's got roast beef in it, not corned beef, because that stuff kind of makes me wanna vomit. And the eggs are fresh out of the poaching pot, so you should start there before the yolks stiffen."

He stares at his breakfast, astounded by how well put-together it appears and how confident she sounds. After a few moments, he looks up at her, lifting his eyebrows askance.

"What?" she asks, far too sweetly.

He eyes his food again, hardly noticing as she disappears from the room. When she returns, he watches her pull his large overnight bag out of the armchair in the corner, and set it down onto the carpet. Then, holding the newspaper, a bowl, and a mug, she sits down, and leans back into the plush cushions of the seat.

"What are you having?" he asks, continuing to look intently at her.

"Not that," she grimaces, glancing at his tray. "We're not all fortunate enough to have extraterrestrial metabolisms fit to handle a smorgasbord."

"So what _are_ you having?"

"Relax, Mom," she quips, rolling her eyes at his concern for her nutrition. Holding up her bowl, she answers, "Yogurt, granola, and mixed berries."

He smiles, congratulating himself on having broken her of her bear claw and maple doughnut habits. "And what's in the cup?"

Pretending to not hear him, she gestures toward the newspaper, and asks, "Do you want the classifieds?"

"No. What's in the cup?"

"Today may be your lucky day. You should keep looking."

"Maybe later. What's in the cup?"

"Vodka," she matter-of-factly responds, taking a sip.

"Lois."

"Clark."

"Is it coffee?"

"Irish coffee."

"Stop being difficult."

"Don't you have super-senses? Can't you smell what it is from the other side of the building?"

"Only if I try. Besides, I wouldn't put it past you to find an aroma-less blend, so I'd rather you just tell me yourself."

She gently laughs at him, "Don't throw a tantrum. It's white tea, with lemon and honey."

He beams, "I told you you'd like it."

"Yeah, yeah."

"And I told you I'd get you off the java."

"Don't sound so damn pleased with yourself. Your food's gonna get cold," she reminds, setting her cup on the end table, propping her legs up on the ottoman, and unfolding the paper.

"I can just re-heat it."

"Or, you can just stop stalling and start eating."

After a few moments of hearing him not move, she looks up to find him staring back at her.

"Is there something you wanna tell me, Lois?"

"Your bedhead's adorable," she smirks.

He narrows his eyes at her, but she doesn't give in. Backing off for the time being, he breaks their gaze and hesitantly picks up his knife and fork. Arranging his tray, he pushes the bacon, sausage, grits, pancakes, fruit salad, and drinks off to the sides, and centers his hash. After which, he quickly peers at her, watching her scan the front page.

"Looks like Perry decided to run Dinah's feature on you. I guess he's getting more crap from the higher-ups for not coddling the conservatives enough," she tells him, crunching on her granola. "I don't know how many more times the wingnuts, wackjobs, and weirdos need your basics repeated to them. You don't interfere with politics, and you don't intervene in natural events. How hard is that to understand?" Looking more intently at the content, she adds, "Though, I gotta say, you know the world's changing when a red-and-blue super-dude is getting more coverage than the NFL conference championships… And Olsen did finally manage to take a decent picture of you… Cute butt."

He chuckles at her offhanded candor and returns his attention to his plate. Slowly, he pulls his knife across one of the poached eggs. The yolk breaks and spills onto the hash. He gathers bits of egg, potatoes, and roast beef onto his fork and raises it to his mouth. Doubting, he takes another look at his forkful and even raises it to his nose to smell it.

Without looking up, she threatens, "The emergency green-k is in my closet, Clark. Eat, or die."

Steeling himself, he opens his mouth and takes his bite. Spreading the food across his palate, he tastes the parsley, garlic, onions, peppers, and thyme seasoning the primary ingredients. As he begins chewing, he looks up at her again, seeing that she's engrossed in an article.

"Lois?" he says, after swallowing his food.

"Hmm?"

"Lois?" he tries again.

Sipping at her tea, she tears her eyes away from the paper long enough to meet his incredulous gaze.

"You've been keeping something from me."

She tries to restrain a smile, but fails. "I told you it was edible."

"No, it's not just edible. It's good," he insists, taking another forkful into his mouth.

"Thank you."

"No, Lois," he muffles through his chews. "It's really good."

"Coming from the son of Ma Kent, that's touching."

Shaking his head in disbelief, he looks down at his plate, and then back up at her. Hardly believing the words as they make their way past his lips, he declares, "Lois, you can…cook."

"Don't sound so shocked. And try the pancakes," she instructs, returning to reading the article.

Eager to oblige, he grasps his cup of water and takes a long drink, washing away the savoriness of the hash. After setting the cup back down, he picks up a small bowl and spoons the syrupy banana-pecan topping onto the pancakes. Putting the bowl and the spoon aside, he then grabs his knife and fork, cuts into the stack, and takes a bite.

"Oh, my god," he mumbles in delight.

She smirks, listening to his sounds of gratification as he works on a few more mouthfuls. She's halfway through the NFC Championship preview by the time he manages to form words.

Crunching on a strip of bacon, he demands, "Explain yourself."

"Explain what?"

"Save the act, Lane," he replies. "I am…speechless. When did you learn to cook?"

"After Mrs. K. moved to Washington."

Shoveling more hash into his mouth, "Huh?"

"Well, I missed her cooking when she left, and you hadn't yet appointed yourself my personal chef. Not to mention, I got sick of everyone giving me a hard time about how awful I was in the kitchen. So, in between Dr. Phil and UFC Fight Nights, I started watching the cooking channels and practicing."

"Does Mom know you can cook?"

"Of course. She gave me tips while I was learning. And she wouldn't have let go of her pancake recipe if she thought I'd screw it up."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Wryly, she responds, "Because I didn't have a reason to before we started dating. And after we got together, it was obvious that you got a huge kick out of mothering me, so I figured I'd only break the news to you when the time was right."

He slows his chewing for a moment, recognizing her line of reasoning. "Are you trying to be funny?"

She laughs at him, and riffs, "Cooking abilities. Double identities. It's just easier to not disclose these things."

"Oh, you're hilarious," he retorts, looking down and realizing that he's already polished off his pancakes. Disappointed, he lets out a sulking groan.

Seeing that he's staring at an empty plate, she figures, "You miss your pancakes?"

"Yes."

Chuckling, she sets her bowl and paper on the end table, rises from the armchair, and leaves the room. After a couple of minutes, she returns with another stack and more topping, only to find him finishing his hash.

"You know, I've seen half-starved basic-trainees eat slower than that."

He foregoes a reply, accepting his second round as she takes away his empty plates. While he munches away, she brings him more hash and another glass of milk.

"Thank you," he muffles through a full mouth.

"You're welcome. Do you feel spoiled?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Do you feel surprised?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Good," she smiles, kissing the flexing muscle of his jaw. As she makes her way back to the armchair, she casually mentions, "I hope you don't intend to eat like that at dinner. You'll embarrass Mrs. K."

After washing down a spoonful of grits with cranberry juice, he replies, "Give it up, Lois. I'm not going. Besides, if anyone should be having dinner with the guy, it's you."

"He didn't invite me. He invited you." Plopping down in her seat and reaching for her nearly empty bowl, she maintains, "It won't kill you to sit down and talk to him."

"We've already talked."

"A couple dozen clipped conversations and two full-volume pissing contests do not count as talking."

"Excuse me for taking offense when some stranger shows up and starts insinuating himself into my life, as if he's somehow entitled," he grouses, remembering how quickly his own mother took to the newcomer while he spent a day with her at the farm, even going so far as to insist upon helping out with chores.

Swallowing the last of her tea, she replies, "You know, despite how much he enjoys getting under your skin, he does like you, and he does just want to get to know you better. Why else would he still be here?"

"And I guess I should ignore the fact that he's been dating you for nearly two months?"

"Here we go again…"

"He takes you out to eat."

"God forbid someone other than you and your mother try to feed me."

"He gives you flowers."

"Never roses. Never red."

"He sends you dresses -"

"You like me in those dresses."

"- _and_ heels."

"The man has good taste."

"He calls you 'Lola.'"

"Ollie calls me 'Legs,' and you don't have a problem with that."

"He even followed you to New York for those two weeks."

"And he promptly made himself discreet whenever you showed up to visit me."

"He's courting you, Lois."

"You are willfully misconstruing things, Clark. And I really think you're only doing it so that you can avoid playing nice with him."

"I'm willfully misconstruing that he's been spending the time with you that I haven't been able to? Even when he knows how much his doing so annoys me?"

"Has it ever occurred to you that maybe, at least in part, he's trying to do you a favor? By looking out for me, and taking an interest in me, and keeping me entertained?"

"By dating you, basically?"

"He is _not_ -" The sound of her ringing cell phone interrupts her. "Who is it?" she huffs.

He leans over toward her bedside table, where her phone is resting. Checking the Caller ID, he tells her, "No name. But it looks like a work number."

"Ugh. It's probably Perry calling to nag me for pulling out of that panel discussion on FOX. I swear, that man needs to get laid, if only to get him out of the office every once in a while..."

As she continues complaining, he disconnects the phone from its charger and tosses it to her. She catches it, and offers him a quick thank-you. He returns to his remaining hash and grits as she clears her throat, and then answers the phone.

"Lane speaking… I'm sorry. Who is this?... Oh, hi!... No, I'm sorry. I just didn't expect it to be you… Why are you calling me from the Planet? Why are you even at the Planet?..."

He raises his eyebrows at her, wordlessly questioning the identity of the caller. She mouths a name and he scoffs, before moving on to his fruit salad. Ignoring his response, she continues her conversation.

"How'd you manage that?... Well, be warned: Perry's kind of a grouch, and he'll probably take offense to someone like you dropping in on him… That bravado isn't gonna help you. Either way, you'll be lucky to make it out of there alive…" At the sound of the caller's joke, she lets out a warm laugh.

"Hardy har har," he chimes in, just loud enough to make his presence known.

Narrowing her eyes at him, "Yeah, he's right here. He's finishing his breakfast… I'm still working on him… No, don't cancel the reservation. He'll be there…"

"Like hell I will," he grumbles under his breath.

"Thanks, but no thanks… No, really. I'll be fine on my own for dinner… You do realize that this kind of chivalry is not helping?… Maybe, but still… Anyway, I should go. He's about done eating… Sure, I don't mind. Just stay away from the Godiva truffles in my top drawer. They were a gift… You're welcome. And good luck with Perry. Tell him you have my seal of approval. He'll deny caring about it, but he'll go easier on you in the end… You, too… Bye."

She hangs up the phone, and then sets it down next to the empty bowl and mug on the end table.

As he gathers the final pieces of fruit onto his spoon, he asks, "Why is he always eating the food that I get you?"

"One: You just heard me tell him to keep his sweet tooth away from my chocolates. Two: You mostly only get me healthy crap, which is right up his fitness-obsessed alley. And, three: He replaces all of the stuff that he eats, and then some."

"Exactly," he grumbles, taking his final bite. "Add grocery shopping to the list of things that I should be doing for you, but that he's taken it upon himself to do, too."

She shakes her head and chuckles at his petulance. As he chews the bits of fruit, she stands and walks over to him. "If it makes you feel any better, you're the only person I've ever served breakfast in bed to," she offers, examining his bare plates and bowls.

He swallows, and then drinks the last of his water, washing his palate clean. "Does he know you can cook?" he asks, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

Cutting short the silly game of one-upmanship that she knows is going on in his mind, she gently suggests, "Let's not talk about him for a while."

He watches as she lifts the bed tray and sets it down on the floor. Giving him a generous smile, she climbs onto the bed and into his lap, sitting back onto his thighs. As she drapes her arms over his shoulders, he wraps his arms around her back, forgetting everything but her nearness.

"Are you dessert?" he teases, leaning forward and brushing his lips across her neck.

Deeply and throatily, she laughs, "Do you want me to be?"

He nods against her skin and pulls her closer to him. "You do know that this is ridiculous?" he murmurs, dotting kisses down to the parts of her shoulder that aren't covered by her tank top.

"What is?"

"You spoiling me. If anything, this should be the other way around, seeing as I'm responsible for us having been apart so much lately."

"Are you kidding me, Smallville?" she teases. "I can't get away from you these days. Everywhere I go, someone's talking about you. Everywhere I look, you're plastered on a magazine cover or a TV screen. You're _always_ around. It's actually getting to be pretty irritating."

He laughs at her ribbing and pulls away from her shoulder. She threads her hands into his hair, stroking his unkempt locks, and meets his gaze. "I meant what I said about your bedhead," she tells him.

"I know," he grins, always happy for her flattery. He inclines his mouth and presses a light kiss to her lips. "Thank you for breakfast."

"You're welcome."

"It was delicious."

"I'm glad you think so."

Rubbing her back, "I take it this means you're just as capable with lunches and dinners."

She nods.

After thinking for a moment, he worries, "Well, now that your secret's out, are you going to stop letting me cook for you?"

"Of course not. Just because I'm capable doesn't mean that I'm willing. And besides, I know you enjoy micromanaging my nutritional intake. I wouldn't rob you of that."

"Thanks," he smiles, relieved.

She scoots forward and wraps her arms around his back. Hugging him to her, she rests her head in the curve of his neck and breathes him in. They hold each other for long, quiet minutes, enjoying one another's warmth.

After a while longer, she hears him say her name.

"Hmm?" she responds.

"Are you sure we can't stay in today?"

"Mm-hmm."

"But -"

"- I know."

"Have I been too -"

"- Nope."

"Are you worried about…?"

"Not at all."

"…Is this because I'm not, um -"

"- No."

"Even though -"

"- Clark, you know that doesn't bother me."

"…It bothers me."

"Why?"

"Because you deserve perfection. And I don't want to…ruin anything."

She takes in a breath and slowly lets it out, considering how to answer his concerns. Pulling away from his neck, she moves her hands from his back to cradle his face. Holding his gaze, she tells him, "First of all, I know that you'd bring me the moon if you thought that's what I wanted. But I don't want the moon. I want you -"

Eagerly, he reassures, "- You have me."

"I know that," she smiles, still not quite accustomed to his increased degree of expressiveness over the last few months. "And that's exactly why there's no possible way that you could ruin anything." Kissing his cheeks, she goes on, "And second, don't worry your pretty little head about 'perfection.' As long as you're comfortable with me, that'll take care of itself."

With a cautious smile, he nods.

She runs her hands down his neck and over his chest, asking him, "Something still the matter?"

Slowly, he responds, "You don't feel…deprived?"

"Of what?"

"Of…us."

Taking his meaning, she tries to suppress the chuckle that she feels itching to make its way past her lips.

Crestfallen, he complains, "You can laugh all you want, but I'm serious."

"I know you are," she attempts to say with a straight face, but her giggles take over anyway.

Embarrassed, he leans forward and presses his forehead into her chest, hiding his face from her. "I hate you," he mutters.

"I know, Smallville," she teasingly sympathizes, trailing her hands back around his neck and into his hair. Massaging his scalp, she tells him, "It's just easy to forget how rocky, narrow, and short this particular road has been for you."

"Do you have to remind me?" he groans, wrapping his arms further around her back.

Feeling him hold her closer, she understands his unspoken request for her assurance. But, unable to resist needling him for a moment longer, she replies, "You're the one who brought it up in the first place."

"It's not the same," he says, talking into her shirt. "When I bring it up, I _worry_ about ruining this. When you bring it up, I _know_ that I will."

"We are really going to have to work on this thick alien skull of yours." She kisses the top of his head, and then murmurs into his hair, "Does this have to do with your abilities?"

He nods against the fabric of her top.

"Don't go all non-verbal on me now. Let's hear it."

He takes a deep breath and buries his head further into her chest. "I know we can. Technically."

"But…?"

"But, Lois…" He squeezes his eyes tighter shut and lets his concerns flow freely. "Sometimes, when I'm around you, I just…I don't even know what's happening to me. I don't know what I'm doing or what's going on. And one second, I'm just looking at you from across a room, and the next second, I have you in my arms. And I have no idea what happens in the moments between when I'm not touching you and when I am."

Absently, she reaches over to her bedside table and grasps the glass of water. "Well that explains why I'm always getting dragged into the copy room or pushed up against the wall in the elevator."

"You don't understand," he quietly exhales, as he feels a few streams of water dampening his hair.

Setting her glass back down and spreading the water through his wavy locks, she encourages, "Explain it to me."

"It's…it's not impulse. I've felt impulsive before. But with you, it's…it's just something that's always there. And it's only gotten worse. Not bad-worse. Just…way less manageable."

"Since when?" she asks, rubbing away the tension she feels underneath her hands.

"Since I told you the truth about me," he answers, still talking into her chest. "Ever since that night, I've just been drawn to you in a way that's fundamentally different than before. It's like I physically can't take going too long without having some kind of contact with you. It takes touching you or at least hearing you for me to feel…less frantic…like I'm not totally losing it…"

Sensing that there's more, she presses, "What else?"

He clears his throat, determined to be honest with her, even if she finds the truth off-putting. "I've been…more tuned into you than before."

"'Tuned in'? Gimme a for instance."

"You know the calendar that I used to keep for your cycle?"

Twirling several strands of his hair around her fingers, "Mm-hmm."

"I don't need it anymore. If I'm around you and I wonder about it, I just know. And it's other stuff too. Like, if it occurs to me that you seem tired, I can sense whether it's because you need to eat something or because you need to get more sleep. I can tell the difference between your core temperature and your skin temperature. I know the difference in your heartbeats. I can tell the worried ones from the angry ones from the excited ones. And the distressed ones trigger my hearing. Like when you were watching that horror film last week."

"So _that's_ why you showed up out of nowhere? You could have just told me that at the time," she offers, combing his dark tresses up and out.

"You had company."

"He would've taken off if you needed to talk to me."

"It doesn't matter anyway, because I didn't even understand it at the time." Returning to his immediate concern, he asks, "You're not weirded out?"

"Get over yourself, Smallville," she teasingly scoffs, her voice tender and bright. "It's gonna take something much more than you knowing when I'm riding the crimson wave to break through my shock threshold." Moving on, she asks, "Have you asked your dad about this?"

"Yes," he answers. Taking a second, he breathes a sigh of relief, assuaged by her unfailing openness to embracing his oddities, no matter how slight. He holds her a little closer, enjoying the sensation of her fingers running across his scalp, wondering if she's trying to give him a mohawk again. Smiling at the thought of her silliness, he continues, "All he did was make some spiel about how my emotions necessarily determine and affect my physiology and my psychology. If I were on Krypton, under a red sun, I'd still feel this fundamental connection to you - it just wouldn't have this kind of effect on my physicality. But on Earth, the sun's yellow, and blah, blah, blah."

She lightly laughs, "He basically told you that you've got it super-bad?"

"Basically," he responds, sharing in her amusement. "Which is easy for him to say. He didn't live his entire life here. He can tell me why I feel what I feel, but he can't really empathize." He turns his head to one side and nuzzles deeper into her softness. He waits a few moments until he can feel the gentle rhythm of her heartbeat, and then, his tone more contemplative, more concerned, he admits, "Lois…this need that I have to be around you, to hear you, to touch you - it's completely out of my control._ I'm_ completely out of my control. And that scares me, because…I don't know what'll happen if we get…closer…and I still can't contain what it is that I'm feeling for you."

"Let me get this straight," she smirks, satisfied that she's gotten enough of his hair to stand up. "You think that I'm a moth, and you're a flame?"

"It's the other way around."

"But you're invulnerable, so how can you be the moth?"

"Because I just am."

"Why can't I be the moth? Is this because I can't fly? Are you prejudiced or something?"

"Yes. Yes, that's exactly it."

"I gotta tell you, Skywalker, you sound like the boy who cried 'Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi' just to keep a hottie in his lap all day long."

In spite of his anxieties, the corners of his mouth stretch into a broad smile. Somehow, her perspective - even when it's of the mocking kind - on his problems never fails to make them seem smaller, without making them seem trivial. He takes in a long breath, and slowly lets it out, relaxing into her and allowing himself to be comforted by her effortless - if, oftentimes, counterintuitive - sense of compassion.

"You wouldn't hurt me, Clark," he hears her tell him, barely above a whisper.

Wishing he felt as certain as she sounds, "Lois -"

"- Let me finish. Then, you can agonize." She pauses for a moment and nestles her cheek into his hair, not minding that she's ruining her hard work on his styling. Breathing in his scent, she tells him, "This isn't automatic, Clark. You spent most of your life either not knowing what you're capable of, or being afraid of what you're capable of. So it makes perfect sense that you can't just wake up one day and see something like this with new eyes. I know having Lane FM blaring in your ears all the time must be unsettling. But, maybe the volume only seems so loud because you haven't tried actually listening to the station."

"I may never understand your thing for metaphors."

She chuckles at his remark, and then clarifies, "I'm saying that maybe the only reason that you don't know what happens during those moments in between our desks and the copy room is because you spend too much time trying to keep yourself under control. So, eventually, your body just does what your mind won't let it do."

He considers her assessment, and soon grasps what she's driving at. But, preferring to hear her go on for a bit longer, he feigns confusion, and replies, "You lost me."

She feels him begin running his hands up and down the length of her back, wordlessly betraying his lie. Happy to indulge him, though, she restates, "The way I see it, we both know that at some point every day at work, you're going to corner me in the break room or pull me into an empty office. So, maybe instead of fighting a war that you can't win, you should try conceding defeat the second you feel a battle about to start."

"Another metaphor? I think you just want me to pin you to the bed," he teases, trailing his fingers along her spine.

She chuckles, "Focus, Clark."

"Don't say I didn't offer." Sighing, he returns to the matter at hand. "I do understand what you're saying. But, you know, if I start doing what you're suggesting I do as often as I get the urge to do it, then Perry's bound to start wondering what we're up to all the time."

"Oh, you sweet, innocent man," she taunts. "I'm sure Perry _already_ knows exactly what we're up to. All the time."

Embarrassed, he turns his face back into her chest, and groans, "Really?"

"Really."

"Why doesn't he say anything?"

"Because he knows that the Planet is a stressful place, and that everyone there needs some kind of occasional…break. Besides, as long as he never finds you and me on his desk, Perry would pretty much let us get away with anything."

"Which is odd, seeing as you two are constantly at each other's throats," he mumbles against her top.

"We yell because we care." She lifts her cheek from his head and presses several kisses into his damp hair. "Now, back to you. We agreed over two months ago, when we first talked about this, to take things slowly. Because the more comfortable you get sharing other things with me, the more comfortable you'll feel when we eventually share the thing that worries you the most."

He lets out an exasperated sigh. "But I've never actually… I mean, those aren't things that I've…ever, um -"

"- You are too adorable for words."

"I'm going to screw this up."

"No, you're not," she says, running her hands down to the side of his face and pulling him away from her. Meeting his gaze, she tells him, "You're going to do what you do best."

"Which is?"

"Take care of me."

Hearing her sentiment, the worry lines in his face disappear, and he smiles.

She returns his grin and dots her lips across his relaxed brow. "Are you done giving me grief for now?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because the thing I'm most worried about is a ways off. And we're going to take our time getting there."

"Exactly." Wrapping her arms around his back, she checks, "Now, is there anything else you'd like to ask me before I kick you out of my bed?"

His good humor retreats from his face as he clears his throat and contemplates his wording.

"Spit it out, Smallville."

"Well, it's just… I mean, it's…" he trails off and clenches his jaw. Trying harder, he manages, "Are you sure that after we've gone this long, that what we're talking about is…enough?"

She scoffs, "Wow."

"What?"

"Just…wow."

"Lois -"

"- You are such a _guy_ sometimes," she says, pulling her arms from around his back and crossing them over her chest.

"What did I do?" he asks, confused by her body language, wondering why she hasn't left his lap if she's as irritated as she sounds.

"We're gonna drop the first part of your name, and just start calling you 'Man.'"

"Are you mad at me?"

"Annoyed."

Starting to take his hands from her back, "Why? What did I do?"

"Don't move," she demands.

Stopping his progress, "You're giving me mixed signals."

"I'm going to give you a crystal clear one in a minute."

Holding perfectly still, he repeats, "What did I do?"

"You turned into a typical male. And you may have even insulted me."

"I'm sor -" He cuts himself short. "I'm not allowed to apologize, am I?"

"Correct."

"Because I don't really know what I'm apologizing for?"

"Precisely."

Having been warned against letting her go, he attempts the opposite tack and tries to hold her closer.

"I told you not to move."

He freezes again, confused all the more. "Lois, um…I accept that I've done or said something to offend you. So, can you please explain it to me? Because you're kind of scaring me right now."

"Before I explain anything to you, I want you to know that you brought this on yourself."

"Brought what on myself?"

"What I'm about to do to you."

"Is this going to involve the silent treatment? Or the kryptonite? Or both?"

Narrowing her eyes at him, she states, "For the record, Smallville: Reproduction boils down to one thing. Intimacy does not."

Beginning to realize where he went wrong, he tries, "Oh, I-I didn't mean to -"

"- But you did."

"…Yes, I did."

"Because we idiot terra firma-nites have put a singular image in your extraterrestrial head."

Recognizing that her quip about his origins means that he's nearing contrition territory, he asks, "Um… Is this the part where I, uh…where I get to -"

"- Apologize?"

"Yes."

"Are you actually sorry?"

Clearing his throat and concentrating, he tells her, "For suggesting that certain aspects of an eventual part of our relationship are somehow not enough, and for giving you the impression, even for a second, that I think we could ever be anything other than utterly fulfilled by any and every experience that we share in that regard - or any other, for that matter? Yes, I am sorry. Because that's not at all how I truly feel. I just…had a lapse into stupidity or something. But I'm back now. And I do apologize."

She smirks and shakes her head, amazed as always by how quickly he learns and by how quickly he switches on the articulacy that he typically only employs when appearing with his shield on his chest.

"You're forgiven."

He breathes a sigh of relief, and looks her up and down. Finding something still amiss, he asks, "Then why are your arms still crossed?"

"Because I'm not finished with you."

"But you said -"

"- Don't worry. I'll take some of the blame, here. You never would've doubted certain things being 'enough' had I simply made myself clear the first time we had this discussion."

He watches as she unfolds her arms and reaches forward to rest her hands on his face. Unsettled by the tenderness of her touch juxtaposed with the menace of her words, he stammers, "L-Lois, um, I-I don't -"

"- Sorry, superhero. We're past the 'tell' part of the conversation."

He swallows at the sight of her biting her lip and trailing her eyes over his mouth. Unsure of her intentions and still afraid to move, he makes one last plea for clarification: "I still don't underst -"

"- Stop talking," she gently instructs, running a thumb over his lips.

His chest tightens and the air in his lungs stills at the timbre of her voice, and he recognizes that she's preparing to make a point. He feels her thumb slide away from his lips and watches her lean down to replace it with her mouth. His eyes fall closed as she makes contact with him, sweeping across his sensitized skin. She presses against his lips, lightly at first, and then with more force and insistence. Pushing her hands back into his hair, she adjusts her angle and eases his lips apart. At the sensations of her fingertips massaging his scalp and her tongue pushing into his mouth, he quietly whimpers and pulls her closer to him. Having gotten the response she was waiting for, she lets go of his hair and reaches around her back to thread her fingers into his. He groans into her mouth as he feels her take his hands away from her.

"Lois -" he begins to protest, opening his eyes.

"- Shut up, Clark," she whispers against his lips, as she presses his hands into the mattress on either side of him, scoots her hips away from his, and settles halfway down his thighs.

Missing her warmth against his hands, he closes his eyes and focuses on her kiss. She trails her hands up his arms, dragging her fingers and nails across his shoulders and chest, as she massages his tongue with hers, pushing deeper and deeper into his mouth. His breaths grow heavier, his heart pounds, and his skin tenses and tingles. He fights his urge to touch her, fights how badly he wants to pull her closer. Feeling his body heat rise, she flicks her tongue across his lower lip, before pulling it into her mouth and biting down. He moans, clearly and headily, at the exquisite pain, and the sensation spreads through him, down his body, and settles in the pit of his stomach.

Gasping, he abandons their kiss and tries to regain his bearings. She persists, despite his shuddering breaths, and, though shaking, he manages to reciprocate. She rolls her tongue against his as she trails her hands over the muscular contours of his chest and stomach. When her hands reach the line of his boxers and her taste overcomes his palate, he takes in a sharp breath and moans again. He hears her ask him something against his swollen, flushed lips, but he can't make it out through the pulsing in his ears. She says something else, and he finally manages to hear her.

"Focus, Clark," she tells him, pulling at his lips, moving her hands down across the fabric covering his hips and thighs. "Are you listening?"

Fighting through his haze, he nods as she presses her tongue into his mouth again. Dizzying at her taste, he feels feverish, nearly faint.

"Do you want me, Sweetie?" she whispers, pulling away from his lips.

He shudders and whimpers at the loss of contact, answering her question without a word. She trails her fingers along the skin of his thighs, before slipping her fingers just under the hem of his boxers.

"Do you want me to touch you?" she murmurs against his cheek as she trails moist kisses up along his jawline. "Because I have every intention of doing exactly that," she promises, tracing her tongue over the indent at the base of his ear.

Beset, piqued by the burning strain at his core, he squeezes his eyes further shut. As she slips her hands further underneath the fabric, inching up his thighs, his mouth falls open and he gasps, drawing in shaky breath after shaky breath. Compelled, overwhelmed by the need to touch her, he starts to lift his hands. But, the severity of the force raging through makes him think the better of it, and he pushes his hands back onto the bed and grips the sheets.

Lightly raking her nails along the skin of his inner thighs, she whispers, "And when I do touch you, it'll be no casual thing." Brushing her lips across his ear's ridges, "It won't be about temporary gratification. And it won't be easily dismissed as a mere prelude."

What began within him as a radiating ache becomes a pulsing throb as she continues, "When I touch you, when you feel me press again you…teasing you, kneading you, stroking you…there'll be no doubt in your mind that I'm doing anything short of making love to you."

She moves her hands from his inner thighs and skims them up his skin until she reaches his hips. "And at some point," she goes on, running her tongue through the dips of his ear, "probably when you're too caught up in your passion to consciously realize it, -" - squeezing, rubbing his hips - "- right around the time you feel yourself completely surrender your desire to me, -" - tracing her thumbs down the lines of his groin - "- just as the pressure inside you becomes too much to take, -" - pulling at his lobe - "- you'll understand that there's nothing more to want -" - purring, whispering directly into his ear - "- than my hands…my lips…my tongue…my mouth…all over you."

Without preamble, she pulls her hands away from him, and climbs off of his lap and out of the bed. His eyes fly open, and he shivers as the cool air in the room invades the space where her body just was. Still breathing heavily, confused even more by her abandonment than by his novel reflex to the chill, he watches her walk over to the end table by her armchair, and collect her mug and bowl. His mouth agape, he wonders at the ease of her movements as she makes her way back over to the side of the bed, bends down to rest her dishes on the bed tray, and then lifts it off of the floor. Astounded, he can only stare at her as she smirks, observing the bedding bunched in his clenched fists and the quick expansions of his heaving chest.

"I'm going to go wash the dishes and straighten up the kitchen," she tells him as she finds his gaze. "We need to be out of here pretty soon, so you should get up and go take your shower."

Peering down at his lap, her smile widens. Mortified by what he realizes to be the source of her self-satisfaction, he quickly shuts his eyes, berating himself for his lack of restraint and deeply regretting his choice of sleepwear.

She presses a chaste kiss to his cheek, and then leaves his side and heads for the door. "Where would you be without that freezing breath of yours?" he hears her throw over her shoulder before disappearing from the room and down the hall.

He tilts his head back, intent on looking anywhere but down, still too beside himself to notice - much less question - the stinging red lines left on his inner thighs.

…


	3. Chapter 3

_[Rating: PG-13 - For some suggestive language and dialogue, and for some sensuality.]_

**CHAPTER 3**

"We need to talk about your dinner date. You can't keep avoiding the subject," she presses, tossing another pair of denim jeans onto the pile of boxes and clothes in his arms.

"I've been doing a pretty good job of it so far," he retorts, balancing the bags hanging from his forearms, and the teetering heap of other items in his grasp. "Are you going to help carry anything?"

"My hands are already full," she points out, holding up the half-full cup in her hand. "Do you want some more?"

"No," he glowers at her, barely able to see her over the top of the clothes tower.

"More for me, then," she smiles, dismissing his attitude and taking another sip of the all-natural fruit smoothie that he pestered her into getting instead of the Cinnabon she had her eyes set on.

Following her into the outerwear department, "Lois, we've already made three trips to the car to drop things off. I think we've gotten more than enough."

"You promised you'd let me spoil you."

"Well, I didn't think you'd take it this far."

"I warned you about pouting."

"I'm not pouting. It's just… I mean, you didn't even let me buy lunch."

"I let you buy the smoothie," she reminds, pulling a double-breasted wool coat from a rack and holding it up to him to gauge its fit. "What do you think?" she asks.

"I think that there are already about a dozen coats in your back seat right now."

"All different colors. All different styles. And you need at least one more. You won't be in office-appropriate overcoats and jackets all the time. Those two car coats that we found will be good for your casual days, and this pea coat will be good for your dressy-casual days. It's simple and classic, and it's totally -"

"- Unnecessary," he grouses.

"Look, Mr. Extra-Brawny Lumberjack," she says, putting the item back on the rack and getting another one a size larger, "we've been over this before: You need new clothes -"

"- A few new shirts and pants, maybe. But not an entire wardrobe."

"You're exaggerating," she dismisses, draping the coat over her arm and heading off to find matching gloves and a scarf.

Trailing behind her footsteps, he persists, "I just don't think that you should be spending your hard-earned money on me."

"Clark, it's only because of y -" she cuts herself short, remembering to be careful of her phrasing since they're in public, something to which she's still adjusting. "It's only because of a certain someone's big debut that I've ended up with this windfall. Between the exclusives, the book deals, and every other thing my agent and my publicist insist on, I could buy and renovate a brownstone. And if they get their way about the movie, I'll probably end up owning beachfront property. So, a new wardrobe is the least that I can get for my favorite fashion-challenged farmer, -" - looking over her shoulder at him and quietly adding -" "- who really should do a better job of acting like all the stuff he's carrying is actually heavy."

Taking her meaning, he readjusts his posture and furrows his brow a bit more, feigning discomfort. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize. You were doing fine until a minute ago, when you started sulking," she replies, sifting through a few scarves. "Besides, you can't help preening around me - I get that."

"I do _not_ preen," he lies, knowing full well how much he's enjoyed being able to display his true capabilities to her, as his whole self.

Her eyes still focused on finding a complementary color of scarf, she replies, "Have I ever told you how irresistible you are when you're indignant?"

He smiles in spite of himself and dials back his protest. Studying her energetic, enthusiastic movements, he asks, "You get a real kick out of playing dress-up with me, huh?"

"Yes, I do," she quickly and simply responds, choosing a scarf and then moving to a wall display with an assortment of gloves. "Besides, it's not like you have a problem with my taste."

"True enough. But you're making me feel like a Ken doll."

"Ken doesn't belong in a Calvin Klein underwear ad in the middle of Times Square. You, on the other hand…"

He smiles harder, riding the high of her flattery, and abandons all further protests.

"Wool or leather?" she asks him over her shoulder, gesturing towards two different pairs of gloves.

"You pick."

"Leather it is, then," she decides. After plucking the largest size of gloves from the stand, she turns back around to him, places the new items on top of his pile, and instructs, "About face, soldier," directing him to the dressing rooms. Chuckling, he turns and follows orders.

They stop outside the dressing rooms so that she can pull her purse off of his shoulder and down his arm, and also take her jacket from him. Readjusting his stack of clothes, boxes, and bags, he heads down a narrow corridor and stops at the first open door that he finds. Just as he begins to step into the room, though, he feels a familiar hand grab the crook of his elbow and pull him back.

"What are you doing?" he quickly asks, startled to see her.

"You need a bigger space," she answers, dragging him all the way to the end of the corridor and pushing him into an oversized room.

After stumbling through the entrance, he turns to close the door, but she pushes inside and past him. "Are you kidding me?" he hisses. "Get out."

"No," she flatly refuses, shutting the door. "I've been waiting outside all day and I'm sick of it. It wastes time." She reaches into his arms and takes his jacket and the yet-to-be-decided-upon items from him.

"This is a _men's_ dressing room, Lois. You're missing a few prerequisites for being in here."

"Save it, Smallville," she replies, placing the clothes, their jackets, her purse, and her cup onto a wide bench on the other side of the room. "My balls are as big as anyone else's in here."

"That's not an image that I needed," he winces, as she makes her way back over to him and takes the rest of the boxes and bags from him. At a loss, he stands in the middle of the large, open area while she sets the already-purchased items on the floor in a corner and then goes to take a seat on the bench.

"We don't have all day, Clark," she insists. "Strip."

"No."

"You are such a pain in my ass sometimes," she remarks, getting up and walking over to him. She pulls his glasses from his face, slides the earpieces and temples into the sides of her hair, and pushes the rims up onto the top of her head. Reaching for the top buttons of his cotton shirt, she offers, "Here, I'll help."

"Oh, no, you won't," he deters, ducking out of her reach. "I can undress myself. _After_ you leave."

Amused, she smiles, and pursues him across the room. "Calm down, Clark. I'm not leaving and you need to drop the modesty."

"I am _not_ being modest."

"You know, you get more and more irresistible by the second."

Still avoiding her advancing form, he continues taking steps away from her until his back finally hits a wall. Trapped with nowhere to go, he tries, "Lois, please."

"What's your damage, Heather?" she asks, stopping directly in front of him and resting her hands on her hips.

Looking down at her, several pieces of his plain, unremarkable hair fall past his forehead, and hang over his brow. Brushing a few dangling strands of the minimal style that's meant to hide his face out of his eyes, he objects, "You shouldn't be in here."

On the verge of laughing, she replies, "Relax. I'm not going to jump you. Not right now, anyway."

An image of them pressed into a wall flits across his mind, and, in spite of himself, he frowns at her easy dismissal of the possibility. He knows he shouldn't be as disappointed as he feels, especially given that he swore to himself that he wouldn't let them get caught up in such a position before he could broach the subject of the inexplicable thin welts he discovered on his thighs earlier that morning.

She studies his expression, and then smirks, "Unless you want me to…"

"I-I don't," he weakly replies, hoping that she doesn't intend to start anything that he most certainly doesn't have the willpower to stop.

Enjoying his discomposure, she takes a step closer to him and lowers her voice to a more provocative tone. "You sure about that? You sure you're not thinking about me running my hands up your chest…around your neck…into your hair…pulling you down to my lips -"

"- I'm not."

True to her word, she reaches out and trails her hands up his torso and over his shoulders, and reaches around to tease the hair at the base of his scalp. A tremor runs through him and his jaw trembles. Taunting him, she purrs, "Oh, you're definitely thinking about it."

He swallows hard, and tries again, "Lois -"

"- If I kiss you, will you calm down?"

"No," he lies, as his eyes fall to her lips.

"I hope you're always this easy, Smallville," she smiles, as she stands on her toes and closes the distance between their mouths.

Despite his previous protestations and his lingering apprehensions, he eagerly accepts the sensation of her lips on his. As she eases his mouth open and lightly runs her tongue across his lower lip, he makes a soft sound of appreciation and relaxes into her. But just as he moves to wrap his arms around her, he feels one of her knuckles graze the skin of his chest. Taken aback, he quickly pulls away from their kiss and looks down.

"What the…?" he asks, seeing that she's undone half of his buttons.

She gently laughs, "I told you you're easy."

Embarrassed, he pulls her hands away from his shirt and scowls.

"Stop pouting. I'm just trying to help this process along."

"You're not helping anything."

"Except for your super-sized libido?" she quips, quirking an eyebrow at him. He shifts a bit, and lowers and shakes his head. "I thought so," she observes. "Look, what is the problem? You traipse around my apartment in nothing but your boxers whenever you stay over."

Trying to regain some ground, he raises his head and meets her gaze. "I'll wear briefs for the next day if you agree to lay off."

"As tempting an offer as that is, I think you already spend enough of your time in spandex."

Having lost that battle, he can only scoff and remain silent.

"C'mon, Clark. Is it the _being_ undressed that's bothering you? Or is it the _getting_ undressed? Because if it's the former, then I wouldn't mind sitting here in just my skivvies and my heels while you try on your clothes. -"

"Lois," he groans, as yet another image flashes before his mind's eye.

"- And if it's the latter, then I'd be happy to do a quick striptease, since you enjoy them so much."

"You're not gonna leave me alone even if I ask you to nicely, are you?"

She persists, "I don't see what the big deal is. You'll only be down to your boxers. Which shouldn't matter anyway, given that I've already seen you naked."

Her dig provokes him just enough, and he latches onto the indignation that he feels swelling in his chest. "You saw me naked once. _Once_."

"That was all it took," she evenly states, crossing her arms and shifting her weight to one leg, readying for their spar.

"You can't pretend to remember something that happened nearly seven years ago."

"What can I say? You left an impression."

"It was dark outside."

"I saw all I needed to see."

"You saw nothing."

"I saw no hair."

"…Th-That's -"

"- A fact."

"…Even if it was -"

"- Past tense? Really? After this morning?"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Are you saying I'm wrong?"

"I'm saying that that incident happened a long time ago."

"And yet, I remember it all so well."

"…I'm not seventeen anymore."

"Your point?"

"I'm older. I look different now."

"Bigger, you mean?"

"Lois!"

"Smaller?"

"Please, stop."

"You do know that that's not something that matters to me, right?"

"I hate you right now," he groans, dropping his head into his hand, feeling his entire body blush.

"And might I also remind you, Mr. Modesty, that you've witnessed me way more than just naked. You've had a full-on sensory experience of me in about the most compromising position a person can be in."

Grumbling under his breath, he regrets, "Yet another image that I don't need right now."

He rubs his tensed brow as the memories of his future-self and her flood his brain. He clenches his jaw and squeezes his eyes shut, wishing he could forget the sights and sounds of their night together. But try as he might, there is no putting it out of his mind.

Every touch that she shared with him plays in full, living color. His need for her and her compassion for him were so potent, so palpable, that many of her memories were practically surreal. There were no broken walls and there was no broken world around them when a darkened man consumed every glimmer of the light that she brought back into his life.

He shakes his head a bit and clenches his jaw, holding fast to the knowledge that his future-self didn't have the same opportunity that he's had to grow with and to learn her, to aspire to a lifetime with her, and that, most importantly, he's shared with her the truth that his future-self did not.

Still though, despite that man's disregard for the concerns, both material and emotional, that should have held him back, he was, at least in one very basic sense, unbound. And for that reason alone, part of him can't help envying even so inconsiderate a man.

His head throbs and his heart aches as a recurring terror grips him - the fear of whether he'll ever be able to convey what he feels for her as freely and unrestrainedly as he wants to and as she deserves.

All of a sudden, he's ripped from his ruminations by the impact of a fist landing soundly against his chest, accompanied by a firm, "Stop it, Clark."

"Ouch, Lois!" he quietly exclaims, as he looks up at her and reflexively moves his hand to the area that she assaulted.

"Was that a sincere 'ouch'?" she demands, narrowing her eyes at him.

"Yes," he sharply replies. "I told you: It hurts when _you_ hit me."

He watches her take a couple of steps away from him and plant her hands on her hips as she bites back, "Good. Now suck it up."

"Excuse me?"

"Get over it," she snaps. "You had it coming for thinking what you were thinking."

"Since when are you clairvoyant?" he retorts, rubbing away the remaining ache.

"Since you turned into a typical male - again."

"Is there a point to this abuse?"

"Is there a point to what you were thinking, other than you beating yourself up - again?"

He glares at her, confused.

"That look you just had on your face was the same resentful, discouraged look that you used to get whenever you'd watch me drink my morning coffee."

"Wait. What? How did this even… What are you talking about?"

Crossing her arms over her chest, she slowly and evenly replies, "You were jealous of my coffee."

"You know, Lois," he scoffs, dropping his hand and not bothering to temper his exasperation, "times like this just remind me of the fact that we really do come from two totally different worlds. But for the record: I was _never_ jealous of your stupid coffee."

"Yes, you were," she pointedly corrects. Shifting her weight to one leg and assuming her power stance, she explains, "You'd see me downing some piping-hot cup, and you'd compare yourself to it. You'd doubt whether you'd ever be able to give me the same rush that that blitz of caffeine did once upon a time. And, Clark, I am telling you that your concerns, while understandable, are completely unfounded. Because even if I could remember the taste of coffee, I wouldn't care, since no amount of anything else ever has or ever could come close to the effect of even just one sip of the man that you've become."

She waits a moment, and watches the stress lines in his face disappear as he grasps her meaning. Easing the severity in her tone and unfolding her arms, she gently adds, "I don't deny how I felt about my coffee - or my sodas, or my bear claws, or my Ding Dongs, or my any-other-things. But you - every bit you, right now, regardless of what you're wearing - are without compare."

He takes a second to appreciate what she's told him, knowing that her sentimental flourishes are few and far between. Part of him wants to ask her how long she's been waiting for the opportunity to convey those assurances. But he gets the strong sense that she's wanted to ever since the one and only time he mentioned the matter on the night of his reveal.

She provoked him on purpose, he realizes. And she addressed an issue that he'd never be able to bring himself to in a manner that was quick and easy - for his sake. A small smile makes its way across his lips as it occurs to him that he may never reach the bottom of the depths of his admiration for her. He resolves to tell her just that someday, but, for now, he offers her the only reply that she needs: "Understood."

"Good," she responds. "And you believe me?"

"I do."

"And you feel better?"

His smile widens at the sound of her concern for him. Feeling his mind at ease and his body relaxed, he responds, "I do."

"Good," she sighs in relief. They regard each other for a long, quite moment, until she breaks their silence, and asks, "Did I really hurt you that much?"

"Yes, bully," he chuckles.

Making a sympathetic sound and stepping forward, she closes the distance between them. He tilts his head down and watches as she pushes the fabric of his half-open shirt away from part of his chest, and presses several soothing, apologetic kisses on and around the place where she landed her blow.

Pulling back and running her fingers over her kisses, rubbing them into his skin, she asks, "Better?"

"Always."

He moves his hands from his sides and tucks a few errant strands of her hair behind her ears, as she looks down at his shirt and asks if she can finish. Feeling less flustered than he did prior to their brief dispute, he gives her a generous smile and a slight nod.

She slides her hands down to his top and begins to slowly undo the last of his buttons. "Wanna hear something interesting?" she asks.

"Mm-hmm."

"I walked into the break room at work the other day," she begins, offering him the comfort and distraction of her voice as she continues undressing him, "and I ran into this tiny group of people hovered over that photo essay that _Time_ ran on the Man of Steel. They were all drooling over his figure, wondering what he looks like without his red and blue on. Aden from HR was a part of the crowd, ironically enough."

"And I'll bet they asked you to join in the discussion," he ventures, regarding her face and hair while she focuses on his clothes.

"Of course they did. So between me and the rest of his fan club, we all decided that he probably doesn't have much, if any, body hair, because he's so highly evolved." Finishing his buttons and running her hands and eyes up his torso, she continues, "Which means that his skin must be impossibly soft… supple… smooth."

He smiles wider as she pushes the fabric off of his shoulders, and goes on, "They asked me what it was like to fly with him. And I told them that it was like nothing I've ever experienced before. Being wrapped up in arms that big, that strong. Touched by hands that gentle. Feeling totally connected. Like there's no end to him, and no beginning to me." She pulls the shirt off of his arms and tosses it behind her onto the bench. "They wanted to know if you're jealous of him."

"And what did you say?" he wonders, grateful for the consolation of the exaggerated parts of her story.

"I told them that you're not threatened by my occasional flights with a superhero, because you know I prefer a nerd with glasses any day of the week." Brushing her hands down his waist and across the skin just above his dark khaki pants, she edges, "But I did add that if there is someone in this universe who gets to be as close to him as I am to you, then that person is very, very lucky."

He beams all the more, still watching her face as she pulls his belt from its buckle. "You know, I probably should be jealous," he jests, playing along. "You're a relentless flirt, Lane. Am I really supposed to believe that a guy like that doesn't bring something so fundamental out of you?"

"Maybe not," she smirks, looking up to meet his gaze. "But trust me, Clark," she says, slowly pulling down the slider of his zipper, "yours is the only ego I have any interest in stroking."

The air sticks in his throat and he coughs. She smiles at his reaction and takes her hands away from him, and then walks back over to the bench. As he tries to pull himself together, she sits down and crosses her legs.

"I'll let you finish," she offers, picking up her smoothie and taking a sip. "We wouldn't want a repeat of this morning."

_..._


	4. Chapter 4

_[Rating: PG-13 - For occasional mild profanity.]_

**CHAPTER 4**

"Give me my pants."

"No."

"Lois."

"Clark."

"Stop being difficult."

"Stop avoiding the subject."

"I'm not avoiding it. In fact, I've already addressed it several times: I am _not_ going to dinner with your boyfriend. And if you're so worried about him getting stood up, then, by all means, you should go yourself."

He advances on her, fully prepared to wrestle her for his clothing. But she glares at him, and he stops in his tracks, steering clear of a match he can't win.

"Do you even care that you're throwing me into the arms of another man?"

"Are you kidding me?"

"I'm serious. You only ever really complain about him so that you can avoid the subject of playing nice with him. But we both know that my relationship with him doesn't really bother you, no matter how much time I spend with him or how much he dotes on me."

Trying a more coaxing tactic, he replies, "No one who's ever had the privilege of knowing you would treat you any differently."

"Nice try, Casanova."

He sighs, and takes another step towards her. Impetuously, she lifts her hips from the bench, slides his pants underneath her, and then lowers herself back down, sitting on them. His state of undress becomes all the more unnerving, given her defiance.

"Do you always have to resort to grade-school tactics to get your way?"

"If that's what it takes, then yes."

"Lois," he grumbles, taking a few steps toward her and reaching out to lift her off of the bench.

"Don't even think about it," she warns, anticipating his tack.

He stops just short of her and contemplates another approach. Deciding on guilt-tripping, he tries, "Playing keep-away with my clothes is not spoiling me. I still have to get dressed and we still have to get through checkout. You're going to make us late for the movie."

In response, she crosses her arms over her chest and lines her jaw.

"Okay. Fine," he concedes, taking a few steps back to give her the space he's sure she'd be demanding any minute. "What's the matter, Lois? That I don't care about you dating the guy? Or that I don't want to date him myself?"

"Both."

He shifts his weight to his other leg and clenches his teeth, wishing she'd let him have this conversation with more on than just his socks and boxers. "Lois," he huffs, throwing up his hands in exasperation, "I really don't see the problem here."

"He's a very good-looking guy."

"He is."

"He's smart. And he's funny. And he's a perfect gentleman."

He pauses for a moment, considers her meaning, and then asks, "Let me get this straight: You want me to be up in arms because he has a brain, a sense of humor, and manners? Why would any of that bother me?"

"You know, we had this same problem with The Blur."

He shakes his head in confusion. "What?"

"You don't care about the company I keep."

"Not true."

"Very true," she counters, getting up from the bench, too restless to continue sitting. "It never once bothered you how much I liked talking to The Blur."

At the sound of her accusation, he starts to say something, but no words come out. There's really no correct response once she starts speaking in a whirlwind of incomprehensibility, he's well aware. There's only riding out the worst until it's over - until she decides she wants to be clear enough for him to understand. At a loss, hoping that the end is somewhere near, he hangs his head and feeds into her incoherence.

"I don't suppose I should point out the obvious about that last comment?"

"No, you shouldn't, smart-ass. Because 'the obvious,' as you put it, is exactly why my relationship with The Blur never bothered you. And now, there's yet another guy in my life who I really, really like, and you don't even blink an eye."

"Wait," he replies, looking back up at her, trying to find the center to her storm. "Are you trying to tell me that he's, like, The Blur 2.0?"

"Yes."

She watches as his face falls, and she immediately regrets her response. Quickly, she clarifies, "I'm not trying to say that he replaces The Blur. I didn't mean it that way. I just meant that he's kind of like…-" - trying to find the right words as he continues looking at her as if she just breathed green kryptonite into the room - "- a live-action version of a friend that I really only ever got to talk to."

"Oh," he quietly replies after a brief pause. "But doesn't that make him better than The Blur?"

"No. Not at all. It just makes him different. Not better or worse. Just different. Besides, I've met the real Blur 2.0, and, between you and me," she says, lowering her voice as if to tell him a secret, "I think he has a crush on me."

She watches a tiny smile quirk at the corners of his lips, and she backs off of a bit as she continues, "What I'm trying to say is that, unlike The Blur, he can meet me for lunch. Or he can tag along when I go shopping. Or he can come over and watch horror movies with me. And what bothers me is that despite how many more things I can do with him than I could ever have done with The Blur, you don't seem to care at all. You complain about him because _you_ _don't_ like him. Not because _I do_."

She sighs and uncrosses her arms. Breaking their eye contact, she turns toward the bench and moves his pants and other belongings to the side, even taking his glasses off of her head and setting them down. As she fidgets with a few more items, he finally gets what she's been saying.

"Lois, look at me."

She huffs, and plops down in the area that she's cleared for herself. Still avoiding his gaze, she crosses her legs and absently toys with an imaginary spot on her jeans.

"Lois?"

"What?"

"You want me to be jealous?"

"No, Clark," she groans, finally looking up at him. "I don't want you to _actually_ be jealous. But especially when someone like him walks into my life, someone who I like as much as he likes me, which pretty much never happens, I would like for you to at least fake it every now and again."

Despite how much he wants to grin, maybe even laugh, he knows she'd probably only take it as him making fun of her or being dismissive. He considers his options for a moment. Then, putting on the sternest face that he can manage at the moment, he looks past her and spots her purse. Without warning, he walks straight over to the bench, ignoring her perplexed look.

"What are doing?" she wonders, as he reaches for her purse, unzips it, and starts rummaging through it.

He ignores her, pushing various things aside, taking care to not bend the edges of an unsealed envelope, and thinking nothing of the brass knuckles and lock pick set that he comes across, until he finds what he's looking for. Grasping her cell phone, he hands the bag to her as he steps away and starts scrolling through her list of contacts.

"Clark, what are you doing?" she tries again, firmer than before.

He finds the name he's looking for and presses the correct key. Turning back to look at her, he raises the phone to his ear, and calmly responds, "Calling him."

"No the hell you are not!" she nearly shouts, throwing her purse to the side and bolting up from the bench. She hurries over to him, reaching for her phone.

"Yes, I am. And I'm going to threaten him, since you've finally given me license to do so," he evenly states, trying to contain his amusement as she tries every move and every threat possible to get her phone away from him. Times like this, his height, size, and quickness give him an undeniable advantage, something that he knows she can't stand. "Quit it," he deters, pushing her hand away from his wrist almost as soon as she manages to reach it. Keeping his back to her, he adds, "Shh. It's ringing."

"Clark, I swear to god! Give it back!"

"Stop interrupting me," he throws over his shoulder as she leaps up, trying to reach over his back. Talking into the phone, he says, "Hello… No, this isn't Lois -"

"- Ignore him!" she tries, speaking toward the mouthpiece.

"No, ignore _her_," he corrects. "She's upset because she thinks I don't care about how much time you've been spending with her the last couple months… I will." He looks over his shoulder at her and informs, "He says to tell you that that's ridiculous."

Affronted, she turns her ire from the man in front of her to the man on the phone. "Tell _him_ to stay out of this if he values his life."

Addressing the caller, he asks, "Did you hear that?... Good. Anyway, I'm calling to tell you that from now on, as far as you and the rest of the world are concerned, Lois Lane is off limits. And to show everyone how serious I am about that, I intend to lock her away in a tower somewhere, and throw away the key… You're right: She will probably find a way to break out at some point. But a man's gotta try -"

"- I'm gonna kill both of you," she insists, shoving him in his back.

He stumbles forward a bit, still talking into the phone. "Yeah, you can say goodbye to her. But just remember that if you ever come near her again, I'll have no choice but to break every bone in your body."

He turns around, ignoring the fire shooting out of her eyes, and calmly hands her her cell. She takes it from him and pushes him in his chest. Raising the phone to her ear, she talks into it as she continues glaring at him.

"Hello?" Upon hearing the man on the other end, she scoffs, rolls her eyes, and sharply replies, "Go to hell, Ollie."

Finally able, he cracks a smile and quietly laughs as she continues making threats.

"Your ass is mine the next time we see each other… Dinah's gonna hear about that comment… Screw you. He couldn't be in better hands… I'm getting off the phone now, Ollie. Goodbye." She presses the "End" key, and looks him in the eye. As incensed as she is amused, she shoves him in his chest one last time for good measure. "Very funny."

"I thought so," he quips, continuing to laugh.

She rolls her eyes, a slight smile pulling at the corners of her mouth, and walks back over to the bench. After putting her phone away, she turns back towards him and, crossing her arms and trying to appear as insulted as possible, asks, "Was there a point to that little prank?"

"Yes."

"Which was?"

"Payback."

"For?"

"For the picture you sent Bart."

She laughs despite herself, and unfolds her arms. Shaking her head at his smirk, she tells him, "Well, next time, can you find another way to get your revenge? Because if you make any more distress calls, you're gonna have everyone thinking that I'm spending the day torturing you or something."

"Yes, sir," he retorts, calming down a bit. "I take it Oliver said something about me?"

"He said, and I quote, 'We're going to find him a different babysitter if you let him get anywhere near 'the office' before tomorrow,'" she replies, using the agreed-upon code for his and his allies' activities. "I mean, first Bart? Now Ollie? It's like everyone thinks I'm going to send you back to work with bumps and bruises. Does no one trust me with you?"

"I do," he offers.

She smiles, but maintains, "You don't count."

"Jor-El does."

"He doesn't count, either."

"How about Mom?"

"Well, I can't argue with that one."

"Good."

Satisfied that she's less upset than before, he takes a couple of steps toward her and reaches out to hold her shoulders. She looks left and then right, observing his large hands covering her upper arms, recognizing that he's about to make some kind of point.

Lifting her head to meet his gaze, she gripes, "Are you handling me?"

He gives her a gentle smile and slightly shakes his head.

She shifts a bit, a small part of her wanting to protest his lie, just for the sake of doing so. But the larger part of her - the part that's already hanging off of his every word - wins out.

Rubbing her shoulders with his thumbs, he asks, "Do you have any idea how incredible you've been these past few months?" When she only responds by quirking an eyebrow at him, he chuckles, "Of course you don't."

She remains quiet, waiting for him to clarify.

"Lois," he smiles, "since I told you the truth, you've made two demands of me: that I discuss Harry Potter with you whenever you want, for however long you want, and without complaint; and that I never forget to kiss you goodbye if I have to leave in the middle of the night. That's it."

"You're losing me."

He smiles a bit more, unsurprised that he has to explain the matter to her so clearly. "I'm saying that you had every reason to want me out of your life after I came clean. But, in spite of all of them, you didn't.

"And since then, you have completely accepted my world into yours. The stuff that would stress just about anybody else out doesn't stress you out. You're as happy to see me come back as you are to see me take off to wherever I have to go. You've been curious about my heritage, and interested in the tiniest things about me. And you haven't tried to be this accepting. You just are. And I continue to be more and more amazed by that - by _you_."

Her cheeks warm at the sound of his sentiments, and she bites her lip to keep herself from smiling too hard.

He slides his hands up her shoulders and neck, and cradles her cheeks. "Now, would you like to know what all that has to do with your new friend?"

She gives a slight nod, and raises her hands to hold his wrists.

Tenderly, he whispers, "You share me with the entire world - graciously and gracefully… The least I can do is share you with one man."

Her smile breaks through, and she excitedly asks, "So he does actually bother you?"

"Of course he does," he admits, happy to see her so pleased. "In all the time that I've known you, I've never seen a guy grab your interest so quickly and keep it for this long. But you're both type-A personalities. You both have big mouths and even bigger egos. And you like a lot of the same things: fashion, food, and whatnot. If I weren't so secure about you and me, I would be a little jealous. But as it is, I'm just glad that you've met someone who challenges you and who makes you laugh. I mean, don't get me wrong, I do think he's courting you…" He trails off, not quite wanting to acknowledge the truth about the nature of her new friend's regard for her.

She chuckles, and presses, "But…?"

"But… I don't think he's doing it romantically."

"Because?"

"Well, setting aside how much I don't get along with him," he sighs, moving his hands to her waist, "I think that, for a guy like him, it's probably rare that he meets someone who actually impresses him, and it's probably even rarer that that person couldn't care less about his name. So I can understand why he goes so far overboard with you. It's just his way of paying you compliments, I guess."

"Aww…" she teases, draping her arms over his shoulders.

"What?"

"You're trying to help him."

Incredulous, he denies, "I am not."

"Yes, you are. You can't stop yourself, because it's just what you do. On some level, you sympathize with where he's coming from, and you think he could use a friend. So you're loaning me out to him."

He shakes his head in amusement. "Lois, loaning you out to someone is the absolute last thing I will ever do. And if I weren't so convinced that you would eventually find some way to escape, I would seriously consider the tower idea."

Giggling, she replies, "That may be the sweetest thing you've ever said to me." She stands on her toes and wraps her arms around his neck. He bends down a bit, accepting her hug, and she nuzzles the side of his face with her lips, venturing, "I think you do like him. And I think that for whatever reason, you just don't want to admit it."

"I wouldn't go that far," he grumbles, rubbing her back.

"Will you go so far as to reconsider your date?"

He lets out a long, complaining groan and drops his hands.

Still holding onto him, she whispers into his ear, "Please."

He huffs and sighs, and then answers, "I'll tell you what: If you let me make you dinner, I will let you try to talk me into it while I'm cooking."

She loosens her hold on his neck and lowers herself back onto the ground. "Clark, that's cheating. I'm supposed to be doing the spoiling."

"I have stated my terms, and they are non-negotiable," he smirks.

She cocks her head at him, trying to think of a way out of the corner he's backed her into. Unable to come up with one, she sticks her hand out, and replies, "Fine. Deal."

"Deal," he echoes, reaching out to shake her hand and seal their agreement. "Can I get dressed now?"

She lets go of his hand and takes a moment to look him over. Exhaling a sulking breath, she turns around to the bench and gathers a few of his things. "If you must," she sulks, pushing his pants and his shoes into his chest.

He smiles and takes a few steps back as she retakes her seat on the bench, crosses her legs, and disappointedly watches as he starts putting his clothes back on.

Seeing her dejection, he tries to lighten her mood, teasing, "You know, there is one thing that I wish you'd ask him to stop doing."

"What's that?"

"Kissing you."

She gently laughs, and clarifies, "He kisses my cheeks as a hello and a goodbye. Besides, people make out with you all the time."

"That doesn't count," he chuckles, pulling his pants over his hips and zipping them up. "Those people are usually a bit jittery because of whatever they've been through, and they just want to say thank you."

"What about Aden?" she counters. "He laid one on you at the winter holidays party, and you were in a suit and tie then."

"One: His boyfriend had just broken up with him - on the Day of Ashura, at that. Two: He was drunk. Three: He's still apologizing to us," he reminds, buckling his belt. "And four: If my memory serves me, which it always does, there was a big-eyed brunette cheering along with everyone else at the time."

Grinning, she remarks, "It was the most interesting thing to happen all night. I'm just sorry he realized what he was doing before he could manage to slip you some tongue." As she watches him pull on a shoe, she continues, "Anyway, the point is that me getting pecked in places that are not my mouth every now and again is hardly the same as people sucking face with you on a fairly regular basis."

He slips on his other shoe, and points out, "But yours are the only lips I ever kiss back."

"Except when some hussy spellbinds you into thinking she's me."

"But she wasn't you," he tells her, his voice earnest. "And it only took me a couple seconds to realize that."

"And it took her even less time to skip town before I could put her in her place."

"I took care of that."

Hearing his tone, low and firm, she smiles. For as much as she admires his geniality, she holds in just as high a regard his intolerance for certain things, one of which being malicious intent toward her or toward their relationship.

Prior to their revelatory night three months ago, he may have faltered in his reassurances to her, knowing that no matter his sincerity, his shroud of secrets made it difficult for her to believe him entirely. But since having every one of her misgivings dispelled by his honesty and transparency, she has known nothing but the embrace of his affections. And that embrace, unwavering in its warmth and its fortitude, has made allowing his new persona the latitude that it needs as easy and as natural a thing as she's ever done, regardless of how much it impresses him.

Perhaps for someone who revered him too highly and thus felt overshadowed by his significance and his endeavors, a relationship with him would be intimidating, even impossible. But for her, his exceptional standard is the only standard for him and the only standard to which she holds him. Thus, she's never doubted the truth of what he told her on the morning of their first anniversary, the very day that he debuted: He is committed to his calling and he is committed to her. And though that balance takes work, she is never in competition with any other aspect of the life he's chosen to lead.

Being held so securely by so high an esteem and by so strong a conviction, knowing who he's become and knowing what she means to that person, she is as confident that there is nothing that could shake his dedication to her and to them, as she is that, try as some might and occasionally do, there is no one.

Watching a familiar expression settle across her features, he wonders where her mind drifted to, and how his simple avowal could've earned such a tender gaze. "What?" he asks, hardly able to keep himself from grinning at the sight of her admiration.

She shakes her head as he beams, and simply replies, "Nothing."

Letting her have the thoughts that are written all over her face, he happily abandons his inquiry. Noticing her aimlessly shift around a bit in her seat and hearing her exhale a soft sigh, he lets his smile shine through. After a few beats, he asks, "Would you like me to kiss you?"

"Excuse me?" she replies, cocking an eyebrow at him.

"You heard me."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Your mouth is saying one thing. But the rest of you is saying something entirely different."

"Oh, really?" she asks, daring him.

"Mm-hmm," he responds, with menace in his tone. As he slowly closes the distance between them, he keeps his eyes on hers, and explains, "That's the fifth uneven breath that you've taken since I asked my question. Your pulse has quickened by seven beats per minute. Your skin is flushing a very particular shade of red. Your core temperature has ticked up half-a-degree. And, if I'm not mistaken, you just fought back the urge to bite your lip." He stops directly in front of her, and begins kneeling down onto the floor as he concludes, "So, I'll ask you again: Would you like me to kiss you?"

She watches him lower himself until he's eye-level with her, positioned along the side of her legs. "Just so we're clear," she quietly tells him as he reaches out to brush his fingers across her cheeks, "if you ever read me like that when we're fighting, I'll kick your alien ass all the way to some other galaxy - far, far away."

He chuckles at what, for her, amounts to a concession speech. Answering her threat in the appropriate manner, he offers, "Heard, understood, and acknowledged."

She smiles at his tenderness and at his thoughtful appeal to her military upbringing.

"Now that we've settled terms," he smirks, threading his fingers into her hair and leaning forward to whisper against her lips. "With your permission, Ms. Lane?"

"Granted."

…


	5. Chapter 5

_[Rating: R - For occasional mild profanity, for suggestive language and dialogue, for sensuality, and for sexuality.]_

**CHAPTER 5**

He watches as she closes her eyes in anticipation, and his smile widens. Lightly stroking her hair, he closes the small distance between them and presses his lips to hers. She whimpers at the initial contact and drapes her arms over his shoulders. When he eases her lips farther apart, increasing his pressure, she shifts closer to him. Seeking out more contact, she angles her head to one side, only to be disappointed when she feels him pulling away from her mouth.

"What?" she complains, opening her eyes to meet his.

"The movie starts in half-an-hour."

"And the theatre is only ten minutes away," she reminds, leaning forward to recapture his lips.

He moves out of her reach, telling her, "So we'll get there early."

"I can't make out with you in a fully-lit theatre," she reasons, using a hand to finger-comb his hair back and off of his forehead, revealing his face in the manner that the world-at-large now only sees when he's his other self. "Besides," she adds, "we can always catch a later screening."

He smiles at her persistence and at her restyling, which can only mean that she's serious about him staying put for the moment. Nonetheless, he maintains, "We should go."

"I'm not going to beg."

"I'm not asking you to," he chuckles, pulling his hands away from her and reaching behind her to grasp his shirt. "But I would like you to cooperate - for once."

"You turning me down, Kent?" she asks, finishing with his hair and resting her arm back over his shoulder.

Pressing a light kiss to her temple, he replies, "No."

"Then you must be avoiding me."

He slips his arms into the sleeves of his shirt and makes the mistake of not answering her quickly enough.

"You _are_ avoiding me," she intuits, a broad smile spreading across her lips.

As he tries to close his shirt, she moves her hands to his chest, obstructing his progress.

"Lois," he warns.

"Is this about this morning?" she asks, hardly able to restrain her amusement.

"This is about getting good seats."

She laughs, "Oh, please. You and I both know that we're probably gonna be the only people present for your snooze-fest film."

"Lois," he groans, still trying to button his top.

"It's not my fault that you're a terrible liar."

Her laughter dies down as she watches him hang his head, giving up on his shirt and placing his hands on the bench cushion on either side of her. She'd point out that despite his professed intent, he still hasn't managed to get up off of the floor or to move away from her in any meaningful way, but there's no need to gloat when she's so obviously on the cusp of victory.

"Lois," he attempts, trying to maintain his resolve, "I'd really like to make it out of here alive."

She lightly teases her fingers across the nape of his neck, needling, "So you'll put yourself to every hazard but me?"

"Lois -"

"- You only say my name this much when you're really worked up about something."

"Ms. Lane -"

"- Nice try," she smiles, shifting in her seat. She watches him follow her movements as she scoots back on the bench, putting some distance between them. Uncrossing her legs and easing one of them to the side, she centers her hips in front of him and positions him between her thighs.

He swallows, trying to relax the tension in his throat. His chest rises and falls with his quickening, deepening breaths.

"I haven't even kissed you yet," she taunts, observing his increasing discomposure and moving her hands from his neck to hold the sides of his face. She tilts his head upward until his eyes find hers, and then whispers, "Is this why you didn't want me in here? Because you knew you'd end up in this position?"

His gaze falls to her mouth. She feels the muscles in his jaw flex as he clenches his teeth, wordlessly answering her question.

"I get that you're conflicted for whatever reason, so I'll take from your silence that we should leave now. But if you want to stay a bit longer, then you're going to have to speak up."

He licks his lips and closes his eyes, fighting back the urge to seek out the taste of her mouth. His current predicament is his own fault, he knows. He could've insisted that she not follow him into the dressing room, but then that would've meant interrupting the enchanting enthusiasm with which she delivers her nonstop style tutorials. And he certainly didn't have to initiate a kiss, but then that would've meant waiting even longer for the only thing he prefers to the sound of her voice - for the only thing he intended on pursuing during the course of the movie he never had any intention of watching.

Swallowing, he curses his body and its instinctive gravitation towards her. They weren't supposed to end up like this, not before they could talk.

The morning's interlude and its aftermath replays in his head. He recalls undressing for his shower and finding faint red lines along his thighs, in the places where she swept her nails across his skin. He couldn't explain it at the time, and they've been too busy the last few hours to discuss it since. And now, overcome by the prospect of her nearness, he senses his priorities inverting and his need for her mounting.

She says something, but his inner monologue makes her words impossible to comprehend. Before he can wonder what it was, he feels her pull her hands away from his face and then gently press them against his chest. He opens his eyes and backs away, giving her the room she's asking for. As promised, she makes the decision for them, standing, and pushing against his arm until he moves his hand away from the bench, allowing her to step away from him.

He watches as she throws her cup in a trashcan in the corner, gathers her things and a few bags of already-purchased items, and heads toward the door. His entire body sulks, missing her proximity already, and the only thought his mind can engage is her suggestion from earlier in the day. Trusting her intuition and preemptively conceding his defeat, he pushes his doubts from his mind, acts on his first instinct, and goes after her.

Just as she reaches for the door handle, she feels his hand grasping her forearm, turning her around, and pulling her back to him. Sensing his urgency, she starts to make some sort of quippy remark, but it dies on her lips as he presses his mouth to hers. She drops her things and winds her fingers into his hair as he wraps his arm around her back and holds her to him, turning them around and backing her into the wall farthest from the door.

The chill of the cool surface makes its way through her shirt and she shivers. He pulls at her bottom lip, sweeping his tongue across it, as he runs his hands down her waist. If it weren't for the thoroughly engrossing sensation of his kiss, she'd likely try to think of some way to mock him. But she'd achieve no success in the endeavor, because it's nearly impossible to maintain a single coherent thought - let alone a derisive one - when he treats her like touching her unlocks his entire existence.

She's found herself in nearly this exact same position with increasing regularity over the past few months. Storage closets, empty stairwells, vacant alleyways - it seems he's always whisking her away to any place that offers even the least bit of privacy. The only difference being that, lately, he's dropped the pretenses of needing her help with one thing, or wanting to talk to her about another. Lately, if she gets any warning at all, it's as casual and gentlemanly an "Are you busy?" as he can manage, as he looms over her desk, his eyes dark and his hands trembling from anticipation.

This, though, isn't quite the same as the many times before. Leading up to their current circumstance, she figured he'd torture himself until the lights dimmed in the movie theatre. And by then, his tenor would have been as frantic as it's been every other time that he's managed to get her in this position recently. But she can feel the difference in his touch as he whimpers in appreciation of her taste and slides his hands across her hips. His eagerness, his intensity are as palpable as ever, but far less turbulent than before. And that he's apparently accepted her encouragement from this morning reassures her. Nearly smiling, she eases her mouth farther open and presses her tongue past his lips.

"Mmm…" he gently moans.

His rising volume brings her back to the reality of their situation, and she murmurs against his lips, "Shh."

Not bothering to respond, he glides his tongue across hers and lifts the hems of her long-sleeved blouse and her undershirt, splaying his hands across the skin of her lower back. She suppresses a moan as his kneading fingertips send a rush of warmth directly to her core. Reflexively, she presses her hips into his. As his own arousal spreads through him, he shudders and gasps, louder than before.

Reining herself in, she tugs at his hair, pulling his mouth from hers. "You _cannot_ keep that up," she quietly tells him.

Dismissing her warning, he recaptures her lips. She lets him push into her mouth, allowing the depth of their kiss to muffle his sounds. As he rakes his teeth across her lips, she unthreads her fingers from his hair, reaches her hands into his open shirt, and wraps her arms around his back. Pulling him flush against her, she notices his increasing strain.

"Clark?" she murmurs. When he doesn't answer, she takes a different approach, pulling his lower lip into her mouth and firmly biting down.

He hisses at the sharp sensation. She repeats his name and he hears her clearly. Opening his eyes, he slips away from her mouth, and pants, "Yes?"

"Maybe we should go now," she suggests, lightly fingering the muscles of his back.

"W-Why?" he stammers, fighting through his haze.

She smirks, "Why do you think?"

He pauses for a moment, trying to gather himself enough to understand her. Still confused, he questions her with his eyes, and for his answer, she pulls him closer to her and quirks an eyebrow. Finally taking her meaning, he tenses with embarrassment and averts his gaze from hers. Stay or go, he struggles to decide. But, after giving the matter as much thought as he currently able to, he quickly boils it down to whether the discomfort he'll endure either way is worth staying where he is. With his decision practically made for him, he finds her eyes, and maintains, "I don't mind that."

"You sure? Because after this morning -"

"- Please, stop talking," he interrupts, securing his mouth to hers.

She accepts the insistence of his kiss as he slides his hands up her back, along her skin. Somewhere within, she registers the heightened temperature of his body. Pulling her hands from inside his shirt, she grasps the fabric covering his shoulders and pushes it down his arms. He lets her go long enough for her to finish removing the top. As she tosses it over onto the bench, he brings his hands to her face, angling his mouth and kissing her deeper.

She hoped the air around them would cool him down, but the heat radiating off of his skin only increases. Concerned, she manages, "Are you alright?"

"Hmm?" he responds, pushing his hands back into her hair.

"You're so warm."

"I'm fine," he answers, pressing his lips firmer to hers.

His assurance fails to entirely convince her, but she takes him at his word for the time being. Circling her arms back around him, she hugs him tighter as she lifts a leg from the floor and hooks it across his hip. After nestling him against her, she opens her eyes to watch his face, and gently grinds into him.

He groans and shudders, tearing his mouth from hers. Feeling her press into him again, he squeezes his eyes tighter shut, and grates out, "Lois…"

"Yes, Clark?"

Holding her forehead to his, he brokenly insists, "I-I don't…I don't mind -"

"- Then let me mind for you."

He moans as she rolls her hips again. Then, shakily, he asks, "A-Are you sure? Here?"

"If here is where we are, then yes."

"But what if, um…I-I don't want to…"

"You'll be fine," she assures him, dotting kisses across his cheek. "We won't let you."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"This isn't fair to you."

"Yes, it is. So stop worrying, and try to relax," she purrs, punctuating her final word with another enticing swivel of her lower body. He moans again, and she quietly reminds, "Just don't be so loud."

Bearing in mind her caution, he clenches his teeth and bites back his sounds. He squeezes the hair at the base of her scalp as she continues moving against him.

Her long, deliberate strokes coax his reluctant desire toward its full bloom. But the escalating pace of his heartbeat and quickness of his breaths warn him against going any further. He tenses, and rasps her name.

"Hmm?" she answers, kissing the dip behind his lobe.

"I don't think I can -"

"- I told you: We won't let you."

"I know. It's just -"

His protest is silenced as she presses her mouth to his. Again and again, with torturous persistence, she massages his tongue in time with the rhythm of her hips until, finally, he whimpers, exhaling his tension and giving in to her.

Gently, she whispers against his lips, "You don't have to control yourself, Baby. Focus on what you feel. Focus on me."

Her use of the one endearment she rarely ever utters convinces him of just how significant a point she's trying to make. He nods, biting his lip, as she runs her mouth back across his jawline. Over and over, she presses along him. With the sound of her cajoling sentiments echoing in his ears, he concentrates on their points of contact, relishing the sensation of her body writhing against his.

More confident than before, his level of arousal at a comfortable height, he grows uneasy about so much of their attention being lavished on him.

"Lois…" he half moans, half asks.

Brushing her lips across his ear, she intones, "Hmm?"

"Can I?"

"Of course you can." Stopping her movements, she takes a hand from his back and grasps one of his in her hair. She drags his fingers and palm down the side of her body until she reaches the highest point of her thigh. Securing his grasp across the rough denim of her jeans, she whispers, "Slow and even."

After pressing an encouraging kiss to his cheek, she relaxes her back flush against the wall, unthreads her fingers from his, and rests her hand against the back of his neck.

Mindful of her request, he firms his grip across her thigh. And then, smoothly, he grinds into her.

"Mmh…" she whimpers against the skin of his neck.

Her soft exhale reverberates to his core, further heightening his senses. Feeling his body heat rise even further, he worries that his temperature is becoming too high for her. He clenches his jaw and swallows, considering whether to back away, but she only holds him closer, pressing her hands against his back and neck, urging him on. Convinced of her comfort, he continues pressing against her, focusing on her breaths, careful to not push either of them too far.

Her eyes closed, she trails suckling kisses across the fiery sinews of his throat. But with her mouth on him, he can barely make out her sounds. On its own volition, his hearing triggers, vastly amplifying the volume of her breaths and her pulse in his ears. And yet, even that fails to satisfy his need to hear her vocalize.

He slows his stroking, but increases his pressure. With more insistence than before, he rocks into her - over and over. His tenderness comes off of him in waves, charging the air around them. Her skin tingles and blushes, glistening with sweat.

"Clark…" she sighs in satisfaction, skimming her teeth along the curve of his throat.

He trembles as the sound of his name from her lips, threaded with such desire, sears onto his memory. Cleaving to the first instance of that intonation, desperate to hear it again, he maintains the tempo and tenor to which she seems to respond the most.

For a moment, he considers taking her from the restrictive surroundings that are apparently compromising her expressiveness, and laying her down on the couch in her apartment. They wouldn't be seen, he reasons, given his speed. And her brief protest to their sudden change in setting would be worth it if it meant soon after divesting her of her blouse and perhaps even her undershirt, and feeling more of her skin against his.

As he thinks the better of his impulse and tries to dismiss the thought, he registers that her teeth and tongue lightly sweeping across his neck and shoulder somehow feel sharper than they should, and that the pressure of her fingertips at the base of his scalp is becoming almost unbearable. Confused, but decidedly unwilling to pull away from her, he refocuses and persists.

"Lois…" he whispers, letting the sound of her name curb his trepidation.

Back and forth, he rocks against her at a steady pace, soothing the burning aches at both of their cores. Surrendering herself to his ministrations, she feels the cadence of his heartbeat reverberate down into her. His touch, his tone, his scent spread through her in wave upon wave until each ripple resounds in one of two distinct notes - entirely different, but somehow the same. She's here, and yet she's not. Caught between two moments in time, her body is overcome by the echoes of a forgotten dream. She bites her lip and resists her distraction, wanting only to be in his arms, here and now.

"Mmh… Clark…" she quietly moans, concentrating on him, losing herself in his rhythm.

Her voice, her breaths wash over him, singeing his skin. His chest tightens. His heart pounds. She whimpers his name again, and he feels her fingers press into his lower back. He braces himself, and she skims her nails across his skin. Wincing, his jaw trembling, he fights back a groan.

Frantic, piqued by the violence of his arousal, he fails to find the words to respond, to explain whatever's happening to him. His body persists of its own accord, continuing to press into her again and again. She grazes her teeth along his neck, pulling at his skin, and he grimaces. Fluttering trembles run down his arms and legs, further confounding him. And when she closes her mouth over a strong sinew and gently bites down, he sharply inhales, "Ah…"

Hearing the pain in his voice, she opens her eyes and turns to face him. Immediately, she notices the moisture, where none should be, across his knotted brow. "Clark?" she worries, but to no avail, as he fails to perceive anything but the fury raging through him. Growing more concerned, she quickly moves her hand to his chest.

Registering the gesture that speaks the loudest, he finally hears her clearly as she tells him, "Clark, stop."

At once, he ceases his movements. Frozen in place, his chest heaving, he feels her slide her leg from his hip and lower it to the ground.

Cradling his face in her hands, she presses, "Open your eyes."

He does as told, letting her see the contesting impulses in his gaze, both the longing and the uncertainty.

"What's wrong?" she asks, her alarm evident in her voice.

He swallows, trying to gather himself, wishing he could give her an answer.

"You're sweating, Clark," she pointedly states.

Confused all the more, he unthreads his hand from her hair and touches his brow. Pulling his hand away, he examines the moisture on his fingertips. "Uh…I-I don't…um -"

"- Oh, my god," she gasps, taking her hands from his face.

"What?"

"Your neck," she panics, pushing at his upper arms and turning him around.

At too much of a loss to resist, he lets her direct him toward the wide, full-length mirror on the other side of the room. His mouth falls open as he sees what she's talking about. Raising his hand to his neck and shoulder, he touches the large patches of deep reds and purples marring his skin.

"I did that? I can't believe I did that. I didn't know that could happen," she rattles off, backing away from him.

"It…can't," he quietly states, still examining the reflection of his contusions. Suddenly, he hears her gasp and he turns to see her terrified expression. "What is it?"

Her hands covering her mouth, she muffles, "Your back."

He turns his head over his shoulder, looks at the mirror, and discovers the source of her distress: four long, deep welts lining the skin just above his pants. Given the similar lines from that morning, he's not entirely surprised to see more of them now, but the severity of the broken ridges does give him pause.

"I'm sorry," she quickly apologizes, ashamed of what being close to her has done to him. "I didn't know that would happen. I'm so sorry."

Hearing a hitch in her voice, he turns to face her, and sees the excess moisture beginning to gather in her eyes. "No, Lois. Please, don't cry," he says, moving toward her.

Reflexively, she takes two steps back.

His chest tightens and he stops in his tracks, knowing that he'll only make things worse by pursuing her. "Lois, this isn't your fault."

"Yes, it is," she shakily replies.

"No, Sweetheart, it's not."

"Do not call me that right now," she insists, her eyes brimming.

"I'm sor -"

"- And don't apologize."

"Okay. You're right -"

"- And stop handling me!"

"I'm not handling you."

She swallows, nearly choking on the knot in her throat, as the first salty stream makes its way down her face. "I didn't even touch you that hard."

"I know," he says, trying to reassure her. "But this wouldn't be your fault even if you had."

She shakes her head and heads toward the door, but he steps in front of it.

"We are not leaving with you in tears."

"We can't talk about this in here, anyway," she points out, as more moisture spills out of her eyes.

Understanding her meaning, he takes a moment to focus his hearing. Listening through and past the walls around them, he checks the other dressing rooms and the nearby areas of the store for the sounds of breaths and heart rhythms. Grateful for what he finds, he returns his attention to her. "There's nobody else back here. No one's going to hear us."

"I broke you," she sobs, looking at his marred skin. "I broke the Man of Steel."

Her stricken, guilt-ridden face overwhelms him, and he tries to find the right words to assuage her. "Lois, please -"

"- No, Clark. I did. I broke you. And I probably would've killed you had we gone any further. I can't believe I did this to you."

"Lois -"

"- Stop trying to talk me down! You don't sweat, your skin doesn't bruise, and your skin doesn't break. There's no way to explain that. I hurt you. I can't believe I hurt you…" She trails off as a few drops fall from her chin to the floor.

"You didn't hurt me," he lies, trying to sound believable.

"Yes, I did," she struggles to articulate. "You said, 'Ow.'"

"No, I didn't -"

"- Don't argue with me."

Clenching his jaw, he tries again, "You didn't do anything wrong. I'm fine."

"Then why do you look like you were just in the fight of your life?"

"Well, I can't explain why the marks are there in the first place, but I'm willing to bet that the only reason they haven't gone away yet is because I'm making you cry over something that isn't even your fault. It's mine. I should have brought this up earlier this morning, when -"

"- Earlier this morning?"

"Yes, there were, uh…red lines, where -"

"- Where I touched you? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, to be perfectly honest, those marks weren't exactly in a place that I wanted you examining. But I was going to bring it up later. And I didn't think we'd end up in this kind of situation before we could talk."

She shifts her weight to one leg and narrows her eyes. "So you figured you'd let me push you to the brink of death before you spoke the hell up?"

He watches her wipe away a few more tears, grateful that at least they're becoming angrier, and less sad. He'll take her being mad at him over her being upset with herself any day.

After clearing his throat, he attempts to account for his delay. "Lois, I didn't mean -"

"- You should go."

"What?" he asks, almost terrified of her response. Her trying to leave would be one thing. Her kicking him out would be something entirely different.

She shrugs and sniffles, "You need sun."

"I'm looking at my sun."

"Oh, god," she scoffs, glaring at him. "Now is _so_ not the time for you to lay on the sentimentality."

"I'm not being sentimental," he replies, only realizing that he's stepped toward her when he sees her step away from him. Stopping himself in place, he persists, "I'm trying to tell you that this will all go away if you just stop avoiding me."

"No," she responds, shaking her head as devastated tears continue running down her cheeks. "I'll probably kill you."

"No, you won't." He clenches his jaw and takes a breath, thoroughly regretting the repercussions of his decision to put off their discussion. Unsure of what to say or of what side of her to appeal to, he resolves to not waste any more time wondering, and simply asks, "Lois, what's it gonna take? Just tell me. Do you need me to make up some lie about why this is happening? Would that at least make you feel better for the time being?"

"No."

"Then do you need to hear that you mean too much to me for this to be your fault? Or would you rather I just stop talking and let you cry it out?"

"No, and no."

"Then what do you need?"

Her eyes on fire, she sharply replies, "For you to have brought this up before you pinned me against the damn wall."

"Alright. That's fair. Point taken," he tells her, relieved to have finally identified a problem that he can address. "I have procrastination issues. We both know that. And if you want to tear me a new one about it later on, then I'll completely understand. But for now, Lois, you're upset and so am I. So why don't you just let me hold you, and we'll both feel better?"

She pauses, regarding him with frank defiance, a clear indication that she's on the verge of giving in. Respecting her final moments of resistance, he remains silent and indulges her indignation.

She shifts and sniffles, and finally relents. Forgetting for a moment why she ever refused to do so in the first place, she crosses the small space between them and walks into his open arms. He exhales in relief and encircles her in his embrace. His warmth and strength instantly curb the strength of her sobs, and her tears begin to slow. Sighing and relaxing into him, she wraps her arms around his back and buries her face in his chest. He holds her closer and soothingly rubs her back until she's perfectly still in his arms.

After several long minutes, he hears her whisper, "You're cooler than before."

He smiles at her observation, and, without needing to verify anything for himself, bares his neck to her, asking, "All better?"

She pulls her head away from his chest and examines his throat and shoulder. Then, standing on her toes, she looks over his shoulder and into the mirror behind him, checking his back. Seeing no signs of damage, she settles back onto the floor, and tells him, "Yes."

"I told you you'd make it go away," he whispers, pulling a hand from her back to stroke her hair.

She smiles at his sentiment, and sniffles, "I need tissue."

"There are restrooms on the third floor," he suggests, relaxing his hold. "I'll be back in two seconds."

Hugging him tighter, she insists, "Too long. Stay here."

"I wasn't exaggerating."

"I know, Preeny McPreenerson."

He lightly laughs at her remark, and then, after a moment, remembers, "Oh, wait. I have something." Reaching into his back pocket, he produces a large, folded square of floral-printed white cotton.

Noticing the familiar pattern and the initials "M.K." embroidered in a corner, she pulls away far enough to meet his gaze. "Why do you have that?"

"Mom's orders," he answers, wiping the faded linen just underneath her eyes. "She gave me this one and a small box of blank new ones after she moved back home."

"Why?"

"Tradition, I guess," he shrugs, running the cloth along her chin and nose. "Dad used to carry them around for her."

"So you've got a bunch of handkerchiefs just waiting to have my initials slapped on them?" she retorts, taking the one in his hand from him.

"Only if you want," he answers, while she dries the spot on his chest where she pressed her damp face. "I know you're not big on this kind of thing. It's just that she made me promise to keep that one in particular on me, and to not bring up the others until I had to offer it to you."

She smiles a bit more, affected by the larger significance of his mother's gesture. "Embroider away, Smallville," she replies, handing the cloth back to him. "But since you're the crier between the two of us, don't be surprised if you get more mileage out of them than I do."

He chuckles, happy to be able to please both of the women in his life, and relieved that the one in his arms is back to her usual joking self. After tucking the handkerchief into his pocket, he brings his hand to her cheek, presses a kiss to her temple, and asks, "Do you feel better?"

She nods in reply, moving her arms from around his back and reaching up to hold his face.

Brushing his fingers along her jaw and chin, he offers, "I'm sorry I scared you. And I'm sorry I didn't bring this up earlier."

"You're forgiven. I'm sorry I freaked out."

"I'd expect nothing less," he quips, and immediately receives a firm punch to his shoulder. "Kidding, kidding," he smirks. "Considering how I know I'd react if I ever thought I hurt you, yours was a mild response."

"You wouldn't hurt me, Clark," she replies, inclining her mouth and sealing her assurance with a soft kiss. After pulling away, she asks, "You sure you feel okay? All your super-systems are go?"

"Yes, and yes."

"Good," she responds, titling his head down and quickly pressing her lips to his brow.

As he leans back up to look at her, he finds her, quite predictably, in investigative mode. And so, he's unsurprised when she grabs his shoulders, pushes him backwards until his legs hit the bench, and unceremoniously shoves him down into a seated position.

"Alright. From the top," she tells him. "Why were you so warm?"

"I'm not sure," he answers, watching her as she starts picking up the things she previously dropped, clearing the area in which he figures she intends to pace around.

"Try again," she presses, setting most of the items down in a corner, and then dropping her purse and coat onto his lap.

He looks down at her things, unsure of what he's supposed to do with them. When she doesn't hear him begin to offer any details, she turns back toward him and realizes what the matter is. As he regards her with confusion, she mumbles something about habit, grabs her things out of his lap, and sets them on the bench next to him. He gives her a teasing smile, and she insists that he shut up and answer her question.

Obliging her, he explains, "All I know is that I usually have to be exerting a ton of energy to run that hot. But even then, I don't sweat, because my body can take it. My temperature just doesn't need to be regulated like a human's."

"How much energy are we talking about?" she asks, walking aimlessly around the room.

"As much as it'd take for me to lift… -" - trying to quantify - "- The Daily Planet. While standing on the ground, though, not while in flight. It's gotten easier for me to lift things when I'm in flight than when I'm not. I could probably lift one of the Rockies if I were mid-air and concentrated hard enough."

"Yeah, why is that exactly?"

"I'm tactile-telekinetic. Which basically means that I kind of unconsciously transfer a degree of my invulnerability to things that I touch. Well, to things that are at risk, anyway." Pointedly, he expounds, "So something that, say, falls from really, really high up and lands in my arms -"

"I'd remind you that I was _thrown_ from that rooftop."

"- doesn't get hurt or damaged in the process of me catching it." As she rolls her eyes at him, he continues, "It's also the same principle that keeps things or people that I run or fly with from feeling the stress of traveling with me at such high and rapidly alternating speeds."

"Which is why I don't get whiplash?"

"And also why your hair doesn't get windblown. -"

"Because, god knows, you'd pitch a super-sized fit if anything bad ever happened to my hair," she mutters under her breath.

"- And also why you can handle the low oxygen and low temperature when we're way up."

"It's funny how you know that, and yet you still wrap that cape around me like it makes the least bit of difference at 35,000 feet."

Ignoring her dig, he finishes, "The point is that my flight is a mind thing, not a body thing. So when I fly, since my brain is working harder, the things that I touch get even easier for me to carry and move. And they get even less vulnerable."

She sighs, and then turns on her heel and paces back in the other direction, processing the latest bit of information about him. "Tactile-telekinetic, huh?"

"Yes."

Chewing her lip, she contemplates, "So you don't even break a sweat moving mountains, but you just broke one with me?"

"Apparently. The only other times it's happened were when there was kryptonite around," he replies, shifting in his seat, trying to gauge her mood. Figuring he shouldn't hold back, he edges, "And, generally, for someone or something to leave a mark on me, well…he, she, or it would have to be at least as strong as I am. Though, even then, the mark usually wouldn't last very long."

She sharply exhales and runs her hands through her hair, thoroughly put out by the notion of her touch having effects anything like those of his greatest weakness or those of his enemies' blows. Trying to come at things from a different angle, she asks, "Well, what did you feel just now?"

In response to her question, his cheeks flush a bit. Seeing his reaction, she grasps what he's thinking, and a slight laugh bubbles up from her throat. Her anxieties somewhat tempered by her amusement, she waves a hand, dismissing his misinterpretation, and clarifies, "I mean, other than the obvious, what were you feeling?"

"Oh," he shyly smiles, relieved to not have to detail his arousal. After clearing his throat, he tries, "Well, hot, obviously. But even though that's not normal for me in this kind of situation, it is normal for me in others. So, the heat itself didn't bother me. I mean, it was probably uncomfortable for you, but -"

"- It wasn't."

"…It wasn't?"

"It wasn't."

"…Oh. Okay, well…I felt…hyperactive. Overwhelmed, I guess. Kind of like I passed the limit of what I could take. My hearing even triggered for a while there -"

"- Wait, wait, wait," she interrupts, stopping her strides and squaring her shoulders in his direction. "Your super-hearing?"

"Yes," he slowly replies, certain that he's said something wrong.

Unable to resist the opportunity to taunt him, she crosses her arms, quirks an eyebrow, and sternly demands, "Was I not loud enough or something?"

"I didn't say that," he quickly denies.

She switches gears from provoked to provocative, relaxing her face and posture, and asking, "You want me to be louder?"

"I want you to do whatever you're comfortable with," he sincerely responds, relying on his senses of decorum and diplomacy. "And I don't want you to do anything that you're not comfortable with."

"Always such a gentleman," she chuckles. Answering the question his ears already asked, even if his mouth won't reiterate it, she promises, "Well, tell your super-hearing that it won't be necessary if you ever get me alone somewhere that's not in earshot of shoppers, employees, and mall security."

She can practically see the shudder that runs through him at the sound of her assurance. He blushes a little harder, averts his gaze from hers, and quietly laughs at himself. Somehow, he's certain, she'd still find a way to flirt with him even if the world were to end in the next ten seconds.

Backing off, she waits a few moments, letting him regain his composure. Then, she returns to the matter at hand. "Okay. So, presumably, you went into overdrive or something. Which explains the heat." Beginning to pace again, she goes on, "But even if you were a little too revved up, I still shouldn't have been able to hurt you, right? At some point, your instincts should've kicked in and you should've resisted the pain. So what went wrong?"

"I'm not sure," he shrugs.

"Has anything like this ever happened before?"

"No. Never." Thinking harder, he tells her, "I mean, while I was still maturing physically, my abilities did go haywire every now and again. But that doesn't happen anymore. Besides, I don't think this has to do with my powers. It's more like…my sense perception, maybe."

She pauses in place again and covers her face with her hands. Rubbing her temples, she groans, "I still think this means that I broke you."

"Lois, if there's an issue here, I'm sure it's with me, and not with you," he maintains, as he gets up from the bench and walks over to her. Hearing his approach, she drops her hands from her face and gives him a discouraging look. He stops moving and rolls his eyes as she steps forward, grasps his shoulders, and pushes him back toward the bench. As she shoves him down again, he continues explaining, "Normally, yes, my sensory threshold keeps me from incurring damage and keeps me from getting hurt, no matter what extreme the sensation that I'm engaging is on. But, I don't know, maybe I just…over-engaged your sensations."

"You've never 'over-engaged' me before," she says, resuming her pacing.

"Yeah, but we've never, you know, done anything…like that…before."

"Well, I wish I could say that I'm flattered to get such a unique reaction out of you. But if it means me hurting you, then I'm not thrilled in the least."

He starts to get up once more, but reminds himself to stay put. Gently, he replies, "Lois, you don't have to be afraid of me."

"I'm not afraid _of _you. I'm afraid _for _you. If I make you super-sensitive, then that's a problem." She pauses for another moment, and sighs again. Never has she considered their positions being reversed in so ironic a manner. And having only experienced such a degree of fear and guilt for the past several minutes, she can hardly imagine what it must have been like for him to carry a far greater burden for years on end. At a loss, she throws up her hands, and suggests, "Maybe you should just take a trip to the fortress."

"No. Not a chance," he nearly laughs, as the notion of listening to his parents dispute how best to reassure and edify him plays out in his mind. Perhaps his mother, whose essence was summoned forth the moment he first flew, would manage a few gently conveyed, though entirely awkward to receive, insights. But, on the other hand, he can just imagine the booming, humorless voice of his father explaining to him the logistics and mechanics of a physical relationship.

"Clark," she sharply reproves, affronted that he finds something amusing. "If there's even the slightest chance that being close to me could hurt you, then you're gonna have to drop the modesty and talk to someone about this. I mean, I barely even touched you and you looked like you just did twelve rounds with the entire Kandorian army."

As concerned as he knows she is, he still can't help but find a certain amount of humor in their odd role reversal. Trying to restrain himself, he tells her, "I wish you wouldn't blame this on yourself. I'm the alien here, remember?"

Seeing the edges of his mouth quirk up, she stalks over to stand directly in front of him. "I cannot believe you find this funny." Planting her hands on her hips, her indignation reaching fever pitch, she goes on, "If you think the media storm was crazy after your debut article, then just wait until I publish your obituary. I'm gonna go from noted to notorious in the time it would've taken you to change into your red and blue."

At the sound of her rebuke, his smile breaks through and he begins to chuckle. Seeing how irritated she's getting with him, he tries to stop himself. But the harder he tries, the harder his laughter comes. "I'm sorry, Lois," he brokenly manages through his rolls of giggles and chortles.

"What is so damn hilarious?" she demands to know, punching his shoulder.

"Lois, you've met my parents."

Still not getting the joke, she drawls, "So…?"

Laughing even harder than before, his cheeks straining and flushing, he struggles to say, "So, Lara would be one thing. But can you imagine Jor-El answering the kinds of questions that you have?"

She considers what he's asking, and remembers him introducing her to the fortress. Bearing in mind his father's overblown sense of formality and grandeur, she understands just how unbearable it would be to hear him answer questions of a physical nature.

She looks down at him, nearly breathless from his hysterics, and pushes him in his chest. Seeing him enjoy himself this much, she can only shake her head and chuckle a bit. Considering how broody he was once upon a time, him now being able to laugh at a situation before torturing himself over it is a victory she'll happily accept. Smiling despite herself, she watches him work through his mirth until he's calm enough to quietly offer her his signature grin - the one that she finds both infuriating and irresistible.

"Are you done now?"

His lips ruddy and his eyes bright, he eagerly nods his head.

As he finishes catching his breath, she rifles through a few things on the bench. After finding his shirt, she bends down, pulls him up from his seat, and turns him around. He cooperates, and lets her help him slip his arms into the sleeves. But before he can start to button up the garment, he feels her yank him around and then push him back down. Yet again, he calls her a bully, and she smiles in response. He starts to pretend aggravation a bit longer, but thinks the better of it when he realizes why she handled him so brusquely. Almost without thinking, she places a hand on his shoulder for balance, and sits down across his thighs.

"Habit?" he teases, brushing some of her hair out of her face.

"Shut up, Smallville."

As he shifts her around a bit, making sure that she's comfortable, she crosses her legs, pulls the open sides of his shirt together, and begins to slip the buttons back into their respective holes. When she's halfway done, she quietly tells him, "I'll be more careful next time."

He rests one hand on her knee, and rubs her back with his other. "You don't need to be careful."

"All evidence to the contrary?"

"Stop agonizing," he smiles, kissing her cheek.

"I don't want to kill you, Clark."

"I'll die happy."

"Would you please take this seriously?" she huffs, dropping her hands into her lap, having finished with his buttons.

"I am taking it seriously. And I am _seriously_ not worried," he consoles. "There's every possibility that this only happened because there's been over a year of buildup between us."

"That's a stupid reason."

"Why?" he asks, taking his hand from her knee and threading his fingers into hers.

As she watches him lift her hand to his lips and kiss the life and love lines of her palm, she explains, "Because if the buildup was the issue, then you wouldn't have lasted as long as you did."

Holding his ground, he retorts, "Do you always have to hit below the belt?"

She smirks, and pushes back, "In case you weren't paying attention a little while ago, I have nothing but the utmost respect for what goes on below your belt.'"

"You really are relentless, Lane," he whispers, easing his mouth open and tracing his tongue across the sensitive skin of her inner wrist.

"Stop that," she half whimpers, taking her hand away from him.

Satisfied with her response, he rests his arm across her legs, meets her gaze, and offers her a gentle smile.

"What if this happens again?" she asks, the corners of her mouth turned down.

"I don't think it will."

"You could be wrong."

"Maybe. But any scenario that begins and ends with you in my arms is fine by me."

"Oh, god," she replies, her frown disappearing as she giggles and shakes her head. "Your lines are getting cheesier by the second."

"But no less sincere."

"What has gotten into you?"

He grins, watching her reach down next to him and pick up his glasses, and simply responds, "I'm just having a good day, is all."

"Despite the two near-death experiences?" she asks, sliding the frames back onto his face and then using her fingers to comb his hair back down over his brow.

"I don't really mind tempting my fate."

"Says the man with the weak link in his invulnerable chain."

"You are not my weak link, Lois," he tells her, wrapping his arms farther around her. "I didn't lose my abilities. I didn't lose control of my abilities. And I didn't pull away from you. That tells me that I just had an overreaction of some kind. And as tends to be the case when something goes wrong with me, I'm sure you're the solution, not the problem."

His tender assurance puts a wide smile on her face, and she leans forward to hug him. He holds her close, continuing to rub her back and stroke her hair.

After several moments, she pulls far enough out of his embrace to meet his gaze. Her amusement clearly evident in her tone, she checks, "You do realize that we're not gonna spend the entire movie trying to solve anything?"

"I do now."

…


	6. Chapter 6

_[Rating: PG-13 - For occasional mild profanity, for some suggestive dialogue, for some mature language, and for moderate sensuality.]_

**CHAPTER 6**

"Barefoot and in the kitchen - just the way I like you," she quips, turning the corner and making her way across the linoleum floor.

He chuckles at her remark and looks up from the open refrigerator. As he watches her pull a chair from under the small dining table, turn it to face his general direction, and then take a seat, his laugh gives way to a wide smile. When she said she was going to go change, he figured he'd be down another set of loungewear by the time she returned. And so, he can't help congratulating himself upon finding her clad in one of his pairs of plaid pajama pants and one of his white t-shirts.

Whereas during their first eleven months, she only ever laid claim to his flannel shirts, in their time since, she's begun hoarding practically ever kind of item that she can get her hands on. Whether his dress shirts, casual button-downs, tees, or sweats, nothing is safe from her clutches - a thought at which he can't help but warm. She was right, he silently acknowledges: There is just something about the sight of her wearing pieces of him, and the knowledge that she's enough at ease to help herself to whatever she wants, that he finds both revealing and reassuring.

Back when they lived under the same roof and she actually bothered with returning his belongings, he mistook her pilfering his shirts and socks and hanging around the farmhouse in them as presumption, an opinion which he reiterated time and again on the occasions when he had to explain her appearance to his father. But now, he understands her habit as a simple expression of her comfort with him and her affection for him - two things that, despite their mutual denial, were there right from the very beginning.

The sound of her voice penetrates his reverie. "You're doing it again," she tells him, crossing her legs into a lotus position, and adjusting the short sleeves that she still had to roll over a couple of times to get his shirt to fit her better.

Though caught in the act of staring, he still smirks, "I'm not apologizing."

"For once in your life."

He chuckles and shakes his head, reaching into the fridge to retrieve the two bowls that he only just placed in there.

As he makes his way over to the dining table, she fusses with the cuffs to his pants, asking, "Does Mrs. K. know you're only staying for two nights?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Because your duffel is pretty packed. There's practically a week's worth of clothes in there."

He sets aside a white cloth napkin resting on one of two placemats, and then replaces it with the bowls. Going to grab a fork, he shrugs, "She knows you steal my stuff, so she probably just packed spares."

She rolls the bottom of each pant leg up one more time, and lightly laughs at his obliviousness to his mother's insinuation. Letting him hold onto his delusion, she shifts gears, asking, "And the extra suit and extra pair of boots?"

"It never hurts to be prepared."

"Spoken like a true Kent," she says, finishing the cuffs. After looking up and finally noticing the bowls sitting next to her, she peers into the dishes, and finds apples slices in one and orange supremes in the other. "Are those for me?"

"Yes. You need a snack."

"And how do you know that?"

"I just do," he smiles, handing her the utensil.

She takes the fork from him, and as he turns to leave her side, she grabs one of his pockets and pulls him back to her. He turns around, and watches her pluck one of the supremes from a bowl.

"Thank you," she tells him, extending the piece of fruit to his mouth.

He leans down far enough and lets her slide the morsel past his lips. Not missing the opportunity, he nips at the tips of her fingers before she pulls her hand away from him.

Smiling at his impishness, she licks the traces of citrus and him from her fingers, and lets go of his pocket. "So what's on the menu?" she asks, satisfied with her quick cleanup.

He finishes chewing and swallowing his fruit, and then bends down farther to place his hands on the chair, on either side of her hips. Closing the distance between his mouth and hers, he jokes, "Well, I wouldn't mind having your lips for dinner, but I'm thinking they may be more appropriate for dessert."

"Alright, it's official: You have the worst lines ever," she giggles, backing away from him. He pursues her, but she pushes against his chest, still laughing. "Haven't you had enough of that? You spent half the movie with your tongue down my throat."

Grinning, he points out, "I let you sleep through the first half. So fair is fair."

"Patient _and_ persistent. Lucky me."

In response, he grips the sides of her chair and stands upright, lifting her and the seat off of the floor until she's eye-level with him. After which, he once again leans in toward her.

She continues laughing and pressing against his chest, deterring him. "This is called 'preening,' Smallville," she teases, observing her current position.

"So sue me." He reaches a hand farther under her chair, balancing it and her in one arm, while he moves his other hand to cradle her cheek.

"Does this mean I'm invulnerable now?"

"Not really. And especially not if I drop you."

At the sound of his retort, she finally gives in, grasps his shirt, and pulls him to her. Their mouths meet in a soft, playful kiss. She teases her tongue across his. He nibbles at her lips. After a few minutes, she slips away from him and leans down toward the table to grab an apple slice. Placing it between her teeth, she offers it to him. Chuckling, he bites off half of the fruit, leaving the rest for her, and then presses his lips to hers one final time. As she chews her piece and lets go of his shirt, he leans down to gently rest her and the chair back on the floor.

"So what's actually for dinner, Martha?"

"Martha?" he asks, confused.

"As in, Stewart. Not Kent."

"Oh, okay. Because if kissing me makes you think of my mother, then I'm doing something wrong," he says, turning around to head back to the fridge.

As he walks off, she places a good-humored slap across his backside, and replies, "No offense to Mrs. K., but if one of your parents were ever to cross my mind, it'd be Jor-El."

"Ew, Lois," he cringes, opening the door to the refrigerator and seeking out the necessary ingredients for her meal.

"There's just something about that condescending tone of his that does it for me."

"He comes across kind of high and mighty to everyone. But he's not so bad once you get used to him." Holding an armful of chilled items, he nudges the door closed with his knee, and adds, "Kind of like the brunette that I'm seeing."

"Smart-ass," she chuckles, grabbing her fork and the bowl of oranges, and beginning to munch away at the fruit.

He leaves his things on the counter, rolls his long sleeves up to the crooks of his elbows, and opens a cupboard, looking through it. "You're having roasted lemon-garlic chicken. Mashed sweet potatoes. And steamed broccoli and cauliflower."

"Oh, c'mon," she pouts. "That's _three_ vegetables. And I hate broccoli."

"No, you don't. You just hate the idea of something that looks so healthy and green."

"I won't eat it."

"Yes, you will. Because you'll have sweet potatoes as a consolation prize."

"Operative word: sweet."

He smiles to himself as he takes several things from the cupboard, and then closes it. "If you had your way, you'd live off of nothing but candies, cakes, and crap."

"You forgot coffee."

"You've gone seven-two days without falling off that wagon," he reminds, washing his hands in the nearby sink. "So let's not even go there."

"I'm beginning to think I'm with the wrong alien. J'onn would never force-feed me vegetables," she taunts, earning a glare as he briefly looks over his shoulder at her. "Anyway, speaking of wagons," she begins, grabbing both of her bowls, standing up, and walking over to his work area, "when are you gonna hop on the one carrying my buddy's band?"

"Never, if I can help it." He looks up from drying his hands and watches her try to scoot onto the countertop next to him, without putting down her bowls. Amused by her struggle and at her refusal to let go of her snack, he steps to the side, grasps her waist, and lifts her up onto the surface.

"Thanks," she says, crunching on an apple.

Before turning to the task of breaking down the foodstuffs in front of him, he quickly kisses her cheek, and smiles, "You could've just asked."

She shifts around on the counter, getting comfortable, and, as if the cause of her difficulty should have been obvious, muffles, "I'm eating."

"What else is new?"

His crack earns him a kick in the leg, being that her hands are occupied and thus unable to deliver a blow.

"You get me to yourself for twenty-four hours, and all you wanna do is bully me? That figures."

"Jackass," she retorts, as she slips another bite into her mouth.

Chuckling, he reaches for a cutting board and a knife as he counters, "Ball-breaker."

"Farmboy."

"Nazi."

"Jerk."

"Harpy."

"Wampa."

"Tauntaun."

"E.T."

"Elliot."

Bested, she can only feign indignation as she carps, "You know, you're impossible to talk to when you get all sappy like that."

He looks up from juicing lemons and chopping parsley, and pokes her leg, goading her. "You like my sappiness. Admit it."

"Never."

"You do realize that that's basically an admission in itself?" he asks, returning to preparing fruits, vegetables, and spices.

"I realize no such thing."

She uses her hand to pick another supreme out of her bowl, and offers it to him. Without looking up from his preparations, he opens his mouth and lets her feed him more of her fruit. She smiles as he dots a quick kiss to her fingertips, his way of telling her that she still has his undivided attention, even while he's poring over making her dinner.

As he continues chopping, slicing, peeling, and dicing, she watches his every movement, impressed as always by the care he takes with anything that has to do with her. With his abilities, he could have her meal on the stove and in the oven in a matter of seconds. But, that would defeat the purpose of his display: demonstrating to her through indirect means his commitment and consideration. With such a degree of thoughtfulness shown to so ordinary a task as cooking for her, she finds it hard to believe that he imagines himself failing her in terms of their intimacy.

Earlier that day, with her back pressed to a dressing room wall, it took an amount of restraint that she didn't know she had in order to keep herself from her release. And had it not been for whatever happened with him, she's certain that her efforts would have failed soon enough. His hands splayed against her, his long, fluid strokes, his rhythm so keenly attuned to that which she responds made it nearly impossible for her to maintain her already tenuous hold on her self-control.

The memory of his pushes and pulls against her sends a ripple of warmth down into her, and, shifting a bit in her seat, she tries to stamp out the beginnings of that burgeoning flame. But, sitting so close to him, watching his eyes fixed on the items in front of him and his hands moving with deft precision over them, she can't help the need to pull him out of the kitchen, down the hallway, and into her bedroom.

At the thought of continuing what they started hours ago, her heart flutters, and she realizes that there's every chance that he heard it. As she sees him pause and look up at her, the wheels in her head immediately begin to turn, and she tries to think of something to say in response to the question she knows is coming.

"Are you okay?" he asks, observing her, his hearing having triggered at the sound of her heart's altered rhythm.

Trying to avoid a direct answer, she responds, "Why?"

He looks her up and down, wondering what the matter is, and immediately perceives the heightened temperature and slight flush of her skin. He studies her further, wondering if he should mention those things, but he can tell from her stiff posture and fixed facial features that for whatever reason, she'd rather he didn't. Giving her the break she's looking for, he suppresses his smile, and simply points out, "You stopped eating. Do you want something different? There's plenty of other stuff."

"No, I'm good," she quickly answers, spearing an apple slice with her fork and taking a bite from it.

For the sake of whatever's bugging her, he picks up the bowl of lemon juice and leaves her side, hearing her sigh in relief as he opens the refrigerator to deposit the bowl in the fridge. Unable to resist teasing her for just another second, he asks, "So are we gonna talk about it?"

"Talk about what?" she nearly coughs out.

He smiles from behind the refrigerator door, and clarifies his question, "About my rival for your affections."

"Oh, him," she replies, grateful to not have to go into what was going on with her a few moments ago. She shifts in her seat again, crossing her legs at her knees, and prepares to get down to business. "I think I was saying something about his bandwagon."

"You were."

"Well, my point," she begins, "is that I can't understand why it's so hard for you to get on board with someone who so many people in your life like. Ollie wouldn't have put him in contact with you if he didn't think you two had some things in common. Not to mention, this is the same guy who helped Chloe disappear, and who helped Mrs. K. make a quick and quiet exit from public life."

"He did those things as favors to Oliver. What does that have to do with me?"

"Everything. So don't play dumb," she warns, wishing he were close enough for her to give him another swift kick in his knee. "Your decision to debut changed things for all parties involved with you. Chloe finally got her rear in gear and bowed out of the superhero game. And Mrs. K. finally had a good reason to leave national politics and resettle on the farm."

"You said 'all parties involved.' What about you?" He stops stalling at the fridge, grabs a bottle of water, and closes the door.

"Well, all I had to do was write an article," she smirks, as she takes the drink that he hands her. "That, and figure out how many more times Mrs. K. can find us mid-makeout on the couch before you die of embarrassment."

"I'd hear her coming if you weren't so…well, you know."

"Distracting?"

"That's an understatement. But yes."

"Quit complaining. She's never once been bothered by catching us."

"She's never once let me forget about her catching us, either."

"Poor you. Your mother encourages you playing tonsil hockey with me. Life must be so hard."

"You two are impossible. Dad would've taken my side."

"I like to think that even Mr. Kent would've sided with reason. You're pretty, and even with Madden 11 in the room, I'm only so strong. What could he expect?"

"Not the family room, at least."

"Well then, until you find a place in the city, it's a good thing I'm flexible enough for the tractor."

"You're relentless."

"You're worth it."

He smiles at her light flirtation, happy that she's entirely over her momentarily lapse in composure. After a few moments, he sees an amused smirk peak at the corners of her mouth. His smile inverts as he wonders why she's on the verge of laughing at him. It takes her looking him up and down, pointing out his current position, for him to realize that he hasn't moved from standing directly in front of her.

"Oh," he quietly states, remembering what he's supposed to be doing. Getting himself back on track, he heads off to the pantry, and thanks a higher power that she didn't make as much fun of him as she could have.

While he searches for something, she returns to the matter at hand: "Anyway, let's not forget that if there really was a reason for you to have a problem with the guy, then your sixth sense would've told you that something was up with him, just like it does every other time you run into someone with ulterior motives. I mean, c'mon, Clark, you trusted him with your own mother. And even though he apparently sucks at farm chores -"

"- Kind of like someone else I know," he quips, knowing that she wishes he was close enough to punch him.

She rolls her eyes, tallying how many blows she owes him, and presses on. "Yes, despite being an even suckier farmer than me, he liked Mrs. K. so much that he wanted to help out while he visited with her. That had nothing to do with you. But it does say a lot about his character. What else do you need to know about him?"

"Him getting along with the women in my life is not reason enough for me to fall all over him," he maintains, reminding himself to straighten up her unorganized pantry when she's not around to give him a hard time for doing so. Closing the pantry door, his sought-after items in hand, he goes on, "Besides, I only met him a couple months ago and we've already had it out twice. I think that goes against us getting along in the long-term."

Remembering hearing both sides of their petty arguments after the facts, she can't help but chuckle at his protest. Each time, they sounded like a pair of squabbling siblings who refused to share a toy, which, she allows, isn't a dynamic with which either one of them is familiar.

As he retakes his position beside her and asks what she's laughing at, she manages, "Two alphas that are trying to figure out how to breathe the same air are bound to butt heads. I'd be shocked if you two hadn't fought by now."

Dropping a few sweet potatoes onto the cutting board, he incredulously denies, "I am not an alpha."

"Oh, gimme a break," she giggles, waving off his assertion and chewing away on her last orange supreme. "You are and you know it. The second you're in hero mode, you command whatever space you're in and the attention of everyone around you. And the problem is that he's the same way. You two only argued because you're not used to having any competition on that front."

"And on the civilian front?" he asks, pulling open a drawer and searching for a peeler.

Setting the empty bowl aside, she shrugs, "Well, I have no idea what your problem is there. The guy's basically me, just with a few things added, and a couple of things subtracted."

"According to your math, I might as well date him," he grumbles.

"He'd have to get through me first." She watches him smile in spite of his overblown objections and close the drawer, peeler in hand. Taking advantage of his lowered defenses, she nudges his leg with her bare foot, and gently says, "C'mon, Smallville. He likes you. You like him. And we both know that there's no good reason for you two to not get along. So what's the real problem?"

He lets out a long, contemplative sigh. As juvenile as he knows his reasoning is, he can't help that it's still there. Shaking his head, he picks up a potato and begins removing its rough skin. "You'll think I'm just being stupid."

His sulky reply immediately brings a joke to her mind. But, not wanting to discourage him from articulating whatever's been the matter, she simply asks, "What is it, Clark?"

He stops peeling, takes a steeling breath, and meets her gaze. Prepared for whatever her response may be, he puts his question to her: "Regardless of our relationship: Do you like him more than you like me?"

She tilts her head to one side, studying his wrought facial features. Apparently, she's been right all along, and a toy really is what's at issue. Shifting her remaining bowl of fruit into one hand, she reaches over with the other and rests it on his forearm. Offering him an honest reply, she says, "I like you both. For your similarities, and for your differences."

Looking down at her hand touching his skin, he asks, "Similarities?"

She thinks for a moment, running her hand from his wrist to the crook of his elbow. Having gathered her thoughts, she explains, "Beyond having about the same sense of justice and the same commitment to justice, you two are incredibly complex, incredibly smart, and incredibly sweet. And neither of you can beat me at Guitar Hero."

Despite himself, he can't help but chuckle a little at her response. Looking up at her, his face warmer and more relaxed than before, he wonders, "And our differences?"

Sensing the change in his mood, she sets down her bowl, uncrosses her legs, and lightly pulls at his arm. He takes her hint, leaving the potato and the peeler on the cutting board, and moving to stand in front of her.

Grasping his waist with both hands and pulling him closer, she replies, "Well, you two are like day and night when it comes to stuff that's not the basics. Country mouse; city mouse. Flannel and denim; cashmere and silk. Black and white; shades of gray. The list just goes on and on."

As she eases him between her legs, he rests his hands on her knees and voices his final reservation: "And if, today, you were to meet both of us for the first time, who would you choose? Romantically, I mean."

Her lips stretch into a broad smile, and she matter-of-factly replies, "You. Every day of the week and twice on Sunday."

"Why?"

"For one, you're taller. For two, you're bulkier. For three, I have this thing for extraterrestrials," she teases, running her hands up the sides of his torso and across his shoulders. She watches him look down and follow her wandering touch, and warms at the thought of how sidetracked he gets by something so simple. Leaning forward, she rests a hand on his cheek, and presses several lingering kisses to his other cheek. As she traces her thumb across his lower lip, she quietly tells him, "But, most importantly, you complement me in a way that no one else ever has. Whereas, dating him would kinda be like dating myself. And even I have to draw the self-love line somewhere."

The sensation of her finger running across his mouth, the scent of fruit tingeing her breaths, the sound of her voice soft in his ear push him further to distraction than he realizes. Beyond controlling his own faculties, he offers an instinctive reply: "Where exactly?"

The tone of his response stops her mid-motion, and she feels his entire body go rigid as he realizes what he just asked. Pulling back from the side of his face to meet his gaze, she finds him looking nothing less than mortified. Unable to restrain her amusement, she chuckles, "Clark Jerome Kent. Really?"

"I, um…" Ripped from the haze he was just in, he struggles to find some sort of excuse. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"Then why are you blushing?" she giggles, watching every bit of his exposed skin turn redder than she's ever seen it before. When he takes his hands off of her knees, averts his gaze, and begins backing away from her, she grabs his shirt and pulls him forward, insisting, "Come back here." As he shakes his head, silently berating himself for his utterance, she asks, "You meant that, didn't you?"

Trying to regain some degree of his composure, he sharply exhales, and looks up at her. His jaw trembling from humiliation, he rambles, "Did I, um… Did I offend you? I'm sorry if I offended you. I don't know where that came from. Had I been thinking clearly, I never would've…"

As she listens to him try to account for his slip, she can't help being reminded that his modesty is one of the things she finds most remarkable about him. That he's not beyond being embarrassed by her or even by himself speaks to the unassuming nature that's so essential to the person he is. Despite how much he's seen and been through, he's still not beyond surprise. There will always be something at his core that can never be jaded - something that the best parts of world can always affect, but that the worst parts of the world can never touch.

Hearing him stumble, hearing him fall over himself to make up for what he assumes was an offense, she adores him all the more. Focusing on her is what does this to him. Her proximity and her touch derail his sense of propriety, making it nearly impossible for him to hold back the truth about anything - especially his desire.

For a moment, she considers interrupting his mea culpa by telling him that she's never needed him more than she does right now. And if it weren't for the fact that such an admission would lead directly to what she's been trying to avoid, and if it weren't for the fact that there's something woefully unromantic about their first earnest attempt at intimacy taking place on her kitchen floor, she would.

But, reining herself in, she simply moves her hands to hold his face, and tells him, "Stop apologizing. I'm not offended."

"You don't have to say that to spare my feelings. You could tell me if -"

"- _Please_, stop," she insists, trying to tune out his persistent litany of unintentionally endearing apologies.

Taking her response as a sign of discontent, he continues, "I'm just trying to tell you that I'm sorry. We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but I'd at least like to say…" He trails off as she breaks their eye contact and takes a hand away from his face. Certain that he's dug himself as deep a hole as he's ever dug with her, he remains silent, watching her dip her index finger into the empty bowl where her orange supremes were, and drag along the bottom of it. Not knowing what to make of her seeming disinterest in him, he tries again, "Lois, if you'd just hear me out -"

"- Stop talking, Clark," she whispers, observing his bemused expression as she lifts her finger and traces the juices coating it across his mouth.

Part of her knows that it shouldn't be playing with fire, but a larger part of her is finding it harder to care. Watching him watch her, she takes her finger away from him and slips it past her parted lips. Slowly, she rolls her tongue along her slender digit, before closing her mouth around it, and gradually withdrawing. Her display achieves its intended purpose as he forgets to breathe, and the air stills in his lungs.

Draping her arms over his shoulders, she regards his expression, recognizing it as the same one he wore in her bed that morning, right before she made clear to him what he'd yet to fully accept - that she has never been insensible of the sway she holds over him, and that her hitherto reluctance to impose certain aspects of that sway should in no way belie her interest or her intent. From his speechlessness and his motionlessness, she can tell that he's braced for a similar demonstration. But after their exchange in his dressing room, she's certain that there's no need. Instead, she'd much rather convey her admiration for the attributes that have landed him in his current position.

Grateful that his glasses aren't around to get in the way, she runs her fingertips over the sensitive skin between the backs of his ears and his hairline. Not above drawing out his anticipation a bit longer, she asks, "May I?"

Entranced, unsure of what's motivating her, unsure of anything beyond the sensation of her hands and the warmth of her gaze, he exhales, "Yeah."

Someday, she tells herself, she'll have to explain to him that the facet of his demeanor that she gives him the hardest time for is precisely what she's currently responding to. But for now, she lets the mystery hang in the air as she slowly leans toward him, and quietly instructs, "Stay still."

His jaw quivers at the first touch of her mouth to his, as she lightly presses against his upper and then lower lip. Drawing back to within a breath of him, she licks her own lips, tasting the sweet tang of the juice that she left on him. Extending her tongue just enough, she sweeps across the outline of his mouth, gathering the remaining bits of liquid. Anticipating her, he closes his eyes to fully appreciate the next sensation, and isn't disappointed as she eases his mouth open with hers, and presses forward.

Softly, she slides her tongue against his, sharing with him the flavor of citrus. His breaths increase, and his hands tremble in the open air on either side of her legs. Had he not been told otherwise, he'd try holding her waist, her arms, her face - anything to keep him from feeling as if he'll float away. But he wouldn't give her an excuse to stop what she's doing for any need of his to stay grounded. And so, he lets her easy presses, flicks, and rolls against his lips and tongue lull him into some higher state.

Had he the capacity to maintain a coherent thought, it'd amount to his constant wonder at her duality. No one who spends his or her workdays with her or encounters her under most other circumstances would suspect there being anything patient or tender about her. And even the few people who receive just as much of her sympathy as they do of her hostility don't realize that she's still never at full tilt with them. For that, only he is ever present. And it's long been understood between the two of them that she doesn't forego the filter because she thinks he'll put up with anything when it comes to her, but because she trusts his unique ability to perceive the complexity and the meaning beyond her sound and fury.

Somewhere within his reverie, he registers the hints of apples and oranges disappearing across his palate, leaving the flavor that's distinctly hers: vanilla and cherry. Without fail, that taste of something sugary and yet spiced, mild and yet sharp, never leaves her. It's some kind of material manifestation of the two fundamental parts to her whole. And while either would be remarkable on its own, combined, the two amount to so much more - to someone whose entirety never ceases to amaze him.

If only the rest of the world knew the secret of her true identity to the extent that he does. If only they could imagine that for as harsh as she can be, she can be just as gentle. If only they could witness a brash, indiscriminate storm of a woman kissing an invulnerable man so delicately that even he thinks himself capable of breaking.

At the feel of moisture dampening the pad of one of her thumbs, she pulls away from him to study his face. His eyes still closed, he gravitates forward, seeking out her mouth. When he doesn't find it, he finally manages to crack open his heavy eyelids enough to find her waiting for him to come back to himself.

Before he can wonder why she stopped, she softly asks, "Where'd you go?"

Not understanding her meaning and not entirely certain as to why it should matter at present, he leans toward her, trying once again to recapture her lips. But before he can reach his destination, she takes a hand away from his face and puts it in his line-of-sight. Deterred, he focuses on her thumb, seeing a smear of clear liquid spread across its tip.

Again, she asks, "Where'd you go?"

The only other time she found him teary in the middle of one of their kisses was the night she returned from her six-day escape, after he told her not only the truth about who he really is, but also the truth about what she means to who he really is. Leaning over him as he lay in her bed, she could understand his overflow of emotion, being that he'd spent the entire time she'd been gone agonizing over how she was, and over whether she'd still want him in her life after having been deceived by him for so long. But the pain of uncertainty and the fear of loss can't possibly be what have prompted the current state of his watery eyes.

He watches her watch him as she cradles the sides of his face in her hands, caressing his cheeks with her thumbs, giving him however much time he needs to form a response. Gazing at her, reminded yet again of what makes her so exceptional, he feels another stream dribble its way down his cheek, and onto her hand.

He lowers his eyes, takes a breath, and swallows, trying to pull himself together. Why he's suddenly on the verge of losing it over the enormity of his affection for her, he hasn't a clue. Just a moment ago, he was getting teased for acting like a toddler in the company of his equally childish non-competition. And just a moment before that, he was casually eating fruit from her hands and lips. But now, for reasons that escape him, lines of salty water run unbidden down his face.

His head hanging, his eyes squeezed shut, he recalls having done this with her before. Or rather, he recalls a different version of himself having done this with her before.

As the sun rose in a red sky, his future-self shed quiet, unrestrained tears that marked the completion of the metamorphosis, ill-gotten as it was, that he experienced after spending a night wrapped up in her. That detail was one of the many that he left out when briefly describing to her what happened between her and his counterpart. But now, despite his contempt for that man's dishonesty, he wishes he brought himself to relate to her more than just the generalities of her memories, if only so she'd understand that across time and space, she still has this effect on him.

For the second time today, she's certain that she's broken him. One minute, she's putting bruises across his indestructible skin, and the next minute, she's kissing him to tears. His admission from that morning about his struggle with keeping a handle on the physical manifestations of his psychological investment in her now rings all the more true. And for as much as she sympathized with his inner tumult while sitting across his lap with his head buried in her chest, the day's subsequent events have shined an even brighter light on just how beyond his control his feelings for and reactions to her are.

If she weren't as certain as she is that he doesn't want to continue making such a spectacle, she'd wrap her arms around him and let him cry it out - like she did the last time. At that thought, she pauses for a moment to correct her thinking. He's never done this before. Not to this extent. That night a few months ago only resulted in two or three tears, and certainly didn't want for a prolonged embrace. Not like the streams trickling across her hands at present.

She blinks a few times and breathes deeply, attempting to shake off her peculiar sense of familiarity with his emotional upheaval. Refocusing on him, she thinks for a moment, considering how to help him without making him feel more uncomfortable than she's sure he already does.

Still holding his face, she presses a quick kiss into his hair, and then tilts his head up. When he doesn't open his eyes, she takes as indignant a tone as possible, and tells him, "Man of Steel, my ass. You're nothing but six-and-a-half feet of mush, Clark - I swear to god."

Upon hearing her reproach, a small, disbelieving chuckle makes its way past his lips. That she's decided on abuse of all things to address his current issue speaks directly to the fact that her intuition, though odd and sometimes exasperating, is seldom, if ever, wrong.

Seeing him smile, if only a little, she persists, "I'm serious, Smallville. My next front-page headline is going to read, 'I Spent the Night with the Man of Mush.' And don't think that Perry 'I-Never-Saw-a-Circulations'-Ploy-That-I-Didn't-Like' White won't go for it. He'll probably think it'll appeal to the middle-aged, middle-American market of women who already line their walls with pictures of you, like you came right out of the pages of their trashy romance novels…"

As she continues taking shots at whomever and whatever crosses her mind, he drops his head and chuckles a little more, grateful for the distraction. By the time she's rounded back around to making some pretty pointed digs at him, his tears have finally stopped enough for him to hazard opening his eyes. He blinks a few times to clear away the excess moisture, and finally peers up at her to find her looking back at him with concern. But, rather than coddle him, she simply rolls her eyes and concludes her invective: "And as for my exposé on how much of a sap you are, when Perry asks me how I know what I know, I'm just gonna flat out tell him that I cheated on you with, well, _you_, and that _you _fell apart in the middle of it, because either _you_ have the emotional fortitude of a Twi-hard tween, or I'm just that damn good."

As she finishes her final stab, he quietly laughs and shakes his head. For the first time since he removed them from her knees, he manages the presence of mind to do something with his hands, lifting them from his sides and resting them on her forearms. She brushes her thumbs underneath his eyes, wiping away the dampness that's still there, and he warmly smiles at her, silently thanking her for helping him to regain his sense of equilibrium. Returning his smile with a small one of her own, she deeply inhales and slowly exhales, and he follows her example, ridding his body of the discord it was experiencing moments ago.

He moves his hands up her arms, and feels the wetness still lining the back of her fingers and her wrists. Remembering his father's handkerchief, he reaches a hand into his back pocket and retrieves it, and then takes one of her hands from his face. After running the cloth over her skin, he rests her dried hand on her leg, grasps the other, still-damp one, and begins drying it in the same manner that he did its counterpart. When he's finished, he places her hand on her other leg, folds the handkerchief over, and begins wiping his eyes and face. All the while, she watches his movements and studies him, wondering if he knows how much she empathizes with what he goes through.

Keeping in check the desires that her feelings for him inevitably brought about was a near-impossible undertaking during the long months prior to his reveal, when it was clear that he wasn't prepared to progress their relationship past its chaste status. And though learning the nature of his concerns in that regard soon after he told her everything about himself at least gave her a clear basis for her continued restraint, it also gave a sharper and all the more significant focus to her yearning.

More than anything, she wants to help him learn to trust her with himself and to trust himself with her. But he's fragile, and she knows that better than anyone else - better than even he knows it himself. And so, she could very well do an irreparable amount of damage should she put him in the position of not being ready or able to give her what she needs. Which, of course, is him.

She regards him with doubt, growing increasingly concerned about whether they'll be able to put his misgivings to rest before he begins to lose his faith in their ability to do so, and growing increasingly anxious about what such prolonged and repeated difficulties could mean for his outlook on their relationship. If only he could feel her against him, hear the effect that he has on her, taste how much she aches for him, then he'd understand what she's known from the very beginning, what she's felt from the moment she found him lying lost, helpless, and alone in a cornfield: He doesn't have it in him to hurt her.

All the same, reaching a point at which he's comfortable enough to pursue the intimacy they both hope for demands of her a degree of fortitude and foresight that's becoming all the more difficult to maintain the longer she spends near him, missing something that she can't remember having, haunted by a presence that she can't remember forgetting.

At so close a proximity, even without observing her expression, it'd be impossible for him to not pick up on such a significant change in her mood. Just as he finishes drying the last damp spot on his cheek, he notices the slight tremble of her right hand, and can just make out the altered pattern of her breaths. Setting the handkerchief next to her on the countertop, he takes her hand in both of his and looks up at her. Finding her regarding him with something he doesn't entirely recognize, the worry lines in his face appear, and he asks, "What's wrong?"

Dismayed by a question that she can't answer honestly, and knowing that he won't be able to focus on anything else until she answers him satisfactorily, she racks her brain for a means of putting some necessary distance between them for the time being. Dropping her head to avert her gaze from his, she takes her hand from his, grasps his hips, and prepares to ease him away from her.

Confused by her movements and put off by her silence, he bends down far enough to find her eyes. "Lois?" he tries. When she doesn't respond, he rests his hands on the sides of her face and tilts her head up. Finally getting her to look at him, he repeats, "What's wrong?"

Gathering herself, she puts on a smile that she wishes were more genuine, and quickly tells him, "You're never gonna finish cooking if I'm around, so I'm just gonna go answer a couple emails, follow up on a few things, maybe do some spell-checking…" She trails off, as she starts pushing against his hips.

Not believing her reply for second, he points out, "You didn't answer my question."

"Yes, I did." Abandoning his hips and reaching for his forearms, she ties to sound convincing as she adds, "I need food. Which, for me, is as big as a problem gets."

As she pulls his hands from her face, he falters a bit, "But, y-you…" Taking a breath, he suppresses his wounded response to her rejection of his touch, and attempts reason, "You just had a snack. Besides, I'd probably be able to tell if you were hungry."

Hearing his disappointment and reluctant to push her excuse to a full-blown lie, she drops the act, and simply tells him, "I just need a minute."

"Why?" he asks, as she pushes against his chest to get him to move back. When she's finally gotten enough room, she slides off of the counter without having answered him. More determined than before, he repeats, "Why?"

"Please, stop asking me that," she replies, trying to maneuver around him.

He plants both of his hands on the edge of the counter, keeping her in place, and asks, "Did I upset you a minute ago? I didn't mean to upset you."

"You didn't."

"Then why are you leaving?"

She groans, stuck between not wanting to hurt his feelings and not wanting to tell him the truth. If he weren't taking a day off, she could at least hold out for some sort of claim on his attentions to reprieve her predicament. But in lieu of an external force and failing her own willingness to deceive him, nothing is going to get him away from her until she comes clean. Still, she tries, pushing against one of his arms until he relents.

"Lois, what's wrong?" he presses, unsure of what she needs to hear or of what he should do. As she walks by him, he finds himself reaching for her hand before he can think to stop himself. "I want you to stay," he tells her, as she turns back to look at him.

Glancing down at their only point of contact, her hand in his, she fights to maintain her resolve. "Ten minutes, Clark."

He steps closer to her, and gently replies, "In ten minutes, you'll be acting like nothing ever happened, and I'll never find out what's going on with you."

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. He's right, and she knows it.

When she once again fails to respond, though, he clenches his jaw and shifts his stance. He knows her well enough to know that if she were determined to leave, she would've been gone by now, even if it meant saying something cutting enough to dissuade him from following after her. But at the very least, her silence means that she's conflicted, and, since she never minces words or actions when he's the object of her discontent, it also means that he himself isn't technically the problem.

"Talk to me," he encourages.

Her resolve waning, she clears her throat and pulls her hand out of his. "Later," she assures him, and turns on her heel to head for anywhere but where she currently is.

Seeing her take her first step away from him, his mind switches into a higher gear, and he watches her movements slow to the point of nearly stopping. Though momentarily taken aback by the involuntary activation of a power that typically only his conscious mind can command, he doesn't resist it if it means keeping her from avoiding whatever the issue is. As he watches her body barely moving at all, he steps around and in front of her, positioning himself between her and the entrance to the kitchen. And then, taking a breath, he slows his mind back down to its regular pace.

Before she makes it a step toward the door, she feels a burst of air blow through her hair, and sees him appear directly in front of her. "Dammit, Clark!" she shouts, bouncing off of him and stumbling backward as her heart nearly leaps out of her chest.

He reaches forward to grab the backs of her elbows, keeping her from falling down. After righting herself, she jerks away from him, scolding, "When are you gonna get it through your head that my nerves _cannot_ take you materializing out of thin air? Are you _trying_ to give me a heart attack?"

Grateful that she's talking to him even if she's yelling, he offers, "I don't actually mean to scare you."

"So why do you keep doing it?" As he starts to respond, she interrupts, telling him, "You know what, don't even bother."

She starts to step around him, but he moves in front of her. "I'm sorry, and I will be more careful next time. But you still haven't told me what's the matter."

"I don't want to talk about it," she insists, with warning in her tone.

"You don't have to. Just tell me what it is."

Sizing him up and trying to figure out a way around him, she refuses, "No."

"Why not?"

Exasperated, she runs her hands through her hair and lets out a sharp groan. Cocking her head to the side, she flatly responds, "It's a woman's issue."

"Okay. What kind?"

"Not the kind that I want to talk to you about."

"There is no kind that you don't want to talk to me about."

"This is different."

"I don't believe that."

"You weren't supposed to."

"Are we fighting?"

"No. But I am gonna kick your ass if you don't move."

Sighing, he steps forward and reaches for her hand. "You can threaten me all you want, just -" He stops short, watching her cross her arms over her chest and step back. Halting his progress and narrowing his eyes, he lets his frustration surface as he tells her, "I didn't do anything to deserve that."

"Tough."

"Is this your idea of spoiling me?"

"Oh, don't even go there."

"Why are we fighting?"

"We're not!" she shouts, throwing up her hands in aggravation and marching toward the small opening to his left.

As she approaches him, intent on insinuating herself past him and out of the kitchen, he considers letting her. But he hasn't spent over a year in their relationship without developing as stubborn a disposition as hers.

Just as she clears his side and has the entryway in sight, she feels his arms quickly encircling her torso and pulling her backward. Taken off guard, she loses her balance and nearly falls into his chest. He wraps her up, grasping one of her upper arms and one of her forearms, holding them against her body and restricting her range of motion. Realizing the position she's in, she musters as much attitude as possible, and grates, "You have _got_ to be kidding me."

"You'll get over it," he retorts, waiting for her useless attempt to get loose.

Huffing, she moves her arms to test his hold, but finds him inflexible. Gritting her teeth, she pushes forward against his arms, and backward against his chest, determined to get him to budge. She grunts and strains, and tries and tries, over and over. For a second, she even considers throwing her head back into his chin, if only to prove a point. But, standing in front of him with nothing on her feet, she's not quite tall enough to do so. Much to her chagrin.

"You are _un_believable," she grumbles, twisting from side to side, failing to make any progress with that maneuver as well. "We both know that I've taken down guys _twice_ your freakish size. So you better believe that this crap wouldn't fly under a red sun. In fact…"

Hearing her launch the first in a volley of toothless abuses, and unable to let the humor of her futile exertions escape him, he smirks as he speaks over her, "Would you knock it off? You'll just exhaust yourself."

Petulant to the last, she gathers herself, and then presses against his embrace with everything she has left.

Utterly unfazed, he chuckles a bit, reminding her, "You've seen me brace a falling high-rise for half-an-hour. Be realistic, Lane."

As her body finally reaches its limit, she gives up, collapsing back into his chest. Struggling to catch her breath, she pants, "One of these days, you, me, and a chunk of blue-k are stepping into a ring."

He takes her weight, glad that she's stopped fighting the inevitable, and asks, "Are we talking boxing or mixed martial arts?"

Swallowing, her chest still heaving, she maintains, "Whichever. Either way, you don't stand a chance."

"It's a date," he replies. "But since there is absolutely no way I'm ever going to punch, kick, or throw you, you'd save me from taking a beating if you'd just pull the obvious trump card."

"I don't speak alien, Smallville. Translate."

He chuckles at her gibe, and then tilts his head down to whisper in her ear, "You can always tell me to let you go, Sweetheart."

His words linger in the air as she contemplates her situation. Regarding the entrance, and then peering down at his hulking arms and large hands enveloping her, she weighs her options. Somehow, she reasons, he must know that he's not fighting fair. She'd have to be on a real tear to walk away from him right now, and if she were on that sort of tear, he wouldn't have made such a move in the first place. Deferring to his perceptiveness and accepting her body's wishes over her mind's reservations, she closes her eyes, and leans her head back into the front of his shoulder.

After feeling her relax and hearing her breathing return to normal, he quietly asks, "Do you remember the last time you were really upset about something?"

She thinks back for a few moments, and then shakes her head.

"Well, I do," he says, loosening his grip on one of her arms to knead her overworked muscles. "While you were in New York, some commentator from FoxNews set you off by insinuating things about the nature of your relationship with me. And you nearly lost it on the air because of what those sorts of suggestions could do to the perception of your journalistic integrity."

Recalling the incident, she scoffs, "Well, he wasn't exactly wrong. I am sleeping with you - technically."

"Technically, yes," he agrees. "But not as far as the rest of the world is concerned." Moving a hand underneath the oversized sleeve hanging down over her elbow, and rubbing her upper arm, he adds, "Besides, he only made that assumption because he couldn't imagine a woman with your eyes, and smile, and hair, and skin, and figure landing a story as big as mine solely on her professional merits."

"You're not going to sweet talk me out of the fact that -"

"- Stop it, Lois. We've been through this before: We were barely even speaking the first time I asked you to write my story," he reminds. "You have a background in reporting about extraordinary things. You have a great reputation with your colleagues and your readers. Your public involvement with my new persona doesn't put any kind of secret identity at risk. And, most importantly, I trust you. That's why it had to be you, and couldn't have been anyone else. This," he emphasizes, wrapping his arms all the way around her and holding her closer, "is just coincidence. Okay?"

She nestles her head further into his shoulder and reconsiders his reasoning. Convinced of his sincerity, she nods.

As he begins rocking her back and forth, he asks, "You still want me to jettison him into deep space?"

She nods again.

"I'll think about it," he playfully indulges. Returning to the matter at hand, he recalls, "Anyway, I was in Chile at the time that interview aired, and I didn't get your voicemail about it until later that night, at the same time that I got your friend's voicemail about how upset you were. But even when I finally made it to your hotel, I was only there for a few minutes before I found out about Victor and Carter being abducted. And I didn't see you again for three days."

Opening her eyes and turning her head to look up at him, she reassures, "I didn't mind you being busy."

He offers her a warm smile, telling her, "I know that. But my point is that my calls to duty cut us short enough of the time. So on the one day when my focus is you and only you, I'm not going to let you stay in a bad mood if there's something I can do to fix it."

She breaks his gaze and turns away from him. "I'm really not up for a discussion."

"Why not?" he asks, letting both of her arms go, sliding one hand across her stomach and resting the other on her waist.

Finally free, she wishes she weren't. Hers is a rapidly devolving situation. She can't bear to go. And yet, staying, with his hands still on her and with his rich, deep voice in her ear, only means that her body's bound to betray her eventually. "Can't you just drop this?" she sighs, speaking as much to him as to herself, as she instinctively moves her hands to rest on his arm and hand covering the front of her torso.

"Can I? Yes. Will I? Not a chance." Lowering his head to her shoulder and sliding his hand down her waist, he gently suggests, "How about this: Don't tell me the problem. Just tell me what I can do or what I can get you to make it better. A punching bag, maybe? Chunky Monkey? _The Empire Strikes Back_? All of the above?"

As his lips land on her shoulder and his hand drifts across her hip, she trembles and tenses. Closing her eyes, she hopes against hope that he didn't notice her reaction, while cursing her body for being more loyal to his touch than to her own will.

Her response, however subtle, to his slight display of affection strikes him loudly and clearly. He's felt her do that before, he realizes, during a time when he was obliged by his own mire of deceit to ignore it. Taken aback, he replays in his head the little moments between them prior to his reveal. Her barely audible sighs of disappointment as he tucked her into his mother's bed, and then left to go spend the rest of the night in his own. Her muted whimpers as he pulled away from their never-too-deep kisses, and offered some excuse, real or imagined, to take his leave. Her nervous flinches as his hands brushed her neck, or his lips swept across her cheek. It was all there. Frustration with no articulation. Passion with no object.

And now, in the time since his reveal, the distance between them has come to be defined not by lies, but by truth - by his paralyzing fear of the harm his desire for her could do.

He looks down at her, studying her closed eyes and still body, and begins to grasp how long and how hard she's been fighting her own impulses, resigning herself to a state of longing, just as she once resigned herself to the parts of him that were inaccessible.

Though she's never admitted it, he knows how disappointed she was by all the things he wasn't telling her at one time. And if not by the many signs he saw back then, then her erstwhile discontent has been borne out over the last few months by the interest she's taken and the delight she's shown in acquainting herself with every detail of himself and the life that he's led - talking at length with those who have known the truth longer than she has, visiting the fortress to chat with his parents, and picking his brain even while he sleeps. Clenching his jaw and frowning, he regrets that it takes such occasions as him accosting her during the last phone conversation he had with her as his anonymous self, or him confronting her in the middle of her kitchen and inadvertently touching her in some particular way for her even to intimate her feelings.

Being as self-contained and as supportive of him as she is, she tends to overindulge him in matters that concern his reserve, which has the unfortunate consequence of enabling the worst of his habits: his complacency. Part of him wishes she were as severe with him about his insecurities and irresolutions as she is with him about most other matters. But he understands that the care she takes with him is simply an expression of how much he means to her, and he trusts that her intuitive sense of how best to handle him is, as it's always been, exactly right.

Still though, theirs has already been too long a history of denial and forbearance, and he cannot reconcile himself to her restraint, and to the things she thinks he's not prepared to hear.

Unnerved by the focus of his gaze and knowing that the wheels in his head are turning, she opens her eyes, timidly clears her throat, and prepares to say something - anything - to avoid the trajectory of their too-quite moment. "Clark?" she utters barely above a whisper, hating the uneasiness in her tone.

In response, he slides his hand on her stomach all the way around her torso, while raising his other hand from her hip and brushing her hair back off of her shoulder to expose her neck.

"Clark?" she tries again, feeling him run his hand down her arm and lower his mouth to the base of her throat, where the collar of her oversized shirt doesn't quite cover. As his lips make contact with her skin, she squeezes her eyes shut, and holds her breath to keep herself from whimpering.

Trailing soft, lingering kisses along her throat, he takes one of her hands on his forearm, lifts it up, and rests it on the back of his shirt collar and neck. The large sleeve of her shirt falls down to her shoulder, followed by his fingertips sweeping across the delicate expanse of her inner upper-arm.

She exhales a shuddering breath and inhales an even shakier one as she tries to get her mind around her situation. When he finds his way to the dip behind her ear and nuzzles his lips into it, a ripple of warmth spreads outward from there to the rest of her body.

Opening her eyes in the vain hope of finding something to focus on other than him, she quietly says his name, more pleadingly than before.

"Hmm?" he absently responds, holding her tighter against him, and running his free hand from her arm, across her collar bone, and up along her throat to cradle her cheek.

Swallowing, and trying to steady herself, she says, "We, um… We didn't finish talking about your date."

"I'll go."

"…Just like that?"

"Yes. And I'll behave, and I'll enjoy myself," he replies, answering the other questions she was sure to ask. He skims his thumb under her jaw and tilts her head to the side, giving himself greater access to her neck, as he gently but firmly adds, "And now we're done talking about it."

"Clark, please," she sighs, unsure of what she's asking for.

Persisting, he pulls his hand on her waist across the front of her torso, and rubs it back and forth. His coaxing touch so low on her stomach has its intended effect, as she relaxes further into him and holds his forearm tighter. He runs his kisses down and back up the side of her neck, and she bites her lip, fighting the strong sense that she's reaching her breaking point.

After tilting her head back in his direction, he lightly presses his lips to the upper curve of her jaw, and lifts his mouth to whisper into her ear, "What do you need, Lois?"

The dark timbre of his voice and the inescapable simplicity of his question push her past her line of restraint. Closing her eyes in surrender, she licks her lips, and exhales the only truth she has the capacity to comprehend: "…You."

...


	7. Chapter 7

_[Rating: R - For occasional mild profanity, for suggestive language and dialogue, for sensuality, and for sexuality.]_

**CHAPTER 7**

Hearing her quiet capitulation, he slides his hand up to cup her cheek, and tilts her head up and back toward him. Then, slowly, he leans down, closing the distance between her mouth and his. His warm breath against her lips sends a tremble through her body. Holding her closer to him, he brushes his lips across hers and then surrounds her upper lip, applying just enough pressure to elicit a soft whimper of approval. She tightens her hold on the back of his collar as he presses firmer against her, while still denying her the contact that she most wants.

He pushes his hand back into her hair, still carefully attending her lips. Growing restless, she tries to turn around to face him, but he pulls her tighter against him, keeping her where she is. His arm wrapped around her torso, and his other wrapped under her arm and around her chest limit her access to him. Resorting to the only options she has available, she releases his collar and threads her fingers into his hair. As she rubs a coaxing hand across his scalp, she lightly nips his lower lip, before sweeping her tongue across it to soothe the imaginary ache.

Granting her unspoken request, he widens his lips, easing her mouth open. She presses her hand against his head, pulling him farther down toward her. At the initial sensation of his tongue against hers, she whimpers again, and he feels the muscles in her stomach flutter. He swallows her plaintive exhale, then pulls back far enough to capture her lower lip. Spurred by her hushed, needful sounds, he increases the pressure of his mouth on hers.

"Mmm…" she gently moans.

Surrounded by his strength, enticed by his insistence, she feels her skin flushing with warmth and a familiar tension building at her core. Reflexively, she arches her back as she squeezes his hair and his forearm. He groans, deep in his throat, at the curve of her backside pressing against him. The slight tremor in his lips only encourages her further, and she strokes her tongue forward against his and begins slowly rolling her hips.

The languid pressure of her moving against him ignites his own arousal, and he feels himself begin to grow and harden against her. "Unh…" he quietly shudders, gripping the fabric of her shirt.

His response to her strikes a familiar cord, and she opens her eyes to murmur against his lips, "Is this okay?"

He meets her gaze, his mind balking as he hears the echoes of each time over the past couple months when she's asked him similar questions, giving him the option to change their course or to wholly withdraw from it before things reach a point with which he's uncomfortable. Heartened by her concern, but wary of her self-denial, he pushes back against their trepidations, and replies, "Yes."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure," he tells her, reaching for her lips.

Assuaged by his assurance, she accepts his kiss with more urgency than before. Matching her tenor, he insinuates his tongue past her lips and lets her massage it with hers. As she rasps her pleasure against his mouth, her dissatisfaction with her restrictive position becomes all the more pronounced.

As the rises and falls of his chest pushing into her back grow deeper, she takes advantage of his distraction with her mouth and releases his hair. Gradually, she moves her hand up along his wrist and then threads her fingers into his. He doesn't resist as she pulls his hand from her tresses and down her neck. But when his palm traverses the generous curve of her breast, his mind stirs to her appeal.

Their hands reach her stomach, and he loosens his hold on her torso and pulls away from their kiss. She turns in his embrace, exhaling a quick and aimless, "Thank you." Then, quickly, she wraps her hands around the back of his neck and stretches up onto her toes.

Seeing her hooded eyes and hearing her husky voice, he begins to offer a reflexive, "You're welcome." But her lips cut short his utterance before he can complete it.

Though the force of her pull nearly throws off his unfailing sense of balance, he still manages to remain upright. Welcoming the eagerness of her kiss, he wraps his arms around her back and angles his head farther to one side.

"Mmh," she whimpers, stroking her tongue past his lips.

As she drinks him in, he glides his hands down her hips and thighs to the bottom hem of her shirt. After reaching underneath the abundant fabric, he moves back up her sides, only to find her skin still concealed from him by what he supposes to be the tank top that he hasn't seen since earlier in the day. Before he can think twice about it, he grasps the billowy white cotton of her immediate layer and lifts it upward. Without hesitation, she slips out of their kiss and raises her arms, letting him peel the material off of her. He drops the shirt onto the floor, and before it reaches the tiled surface, his lips find hers once more.

She rests her hands on the sides of his face, and he reaches underneath her tank top to spread his fingers against her lower back and waist. As his hands make contact with her skin, her thumb crosses the barely healed line of a cut high on his cheek.

Startled by the sensation, she pulls away from his lips, and worriedly asks, "Are you alright?"

"What?" he breathlessly replies, confused as to her meaning.

Holding his face, she runs her eyes over his skin.

"What is it?" he tries once more.

Finding the surface of his cheek unbroken by any wound, she blinks once, and then again. "Nothing," she tells him, unable to rationalize away the certainty of what she felt, but content to set it aside.

He accepts her reply and the firmness of her kiss. His smooth hands running up and around her back push her undershirt higher, and the air in the room meets her skin, sending a shiver through her body. She faintly gasps at the contrasting temperatures, and feels the first flush of her arousal slicking her core. Seeking some kind of pressure to ease her increasing ache, she leans her body forward and into the slight swell between his hips. At the feel of her subtle movement, he slides his hands to her waist and holds her closer.

As she subtly rocks against him, she notices the skin of his cheeks warming against her palms. And against the backs of her hands and along her arms and shoulders, she senses the radiating heat of something else - something fainter and more diffuse. Recognizing the feel and then the scent of burning oil and melting wax, she opens her eyes to study her surroundings. Finding only the fluorescent glow of the kitchen's overhead lights, she dismisses her mistake and kisses him deeper.

The muscles in her calves begin to tremble at the strain of her standing only on her toes, and he notices the quivers of exhaustion in her lower body. She sinks back onto the floor, and he tilts his head down farther, refusing to abandon the taste of her mouth. Discontented by the angle her shorter stature gives her, she steps forward onto the tops of his feet. He smirks, recognizing the gesture she typically only makes when she wants to see the world from above. Obliging her, he bends down far enough to reach an arm underneath her thighs, and lifts her up. As she wraps her legs around his back, he murmurs against her lips, "You could've just asked -"

"- Stop talking," she insists, pushing one hand back into his hair and sliding the other underneath his collar and around his neck.

Sitting comfortably in his large, tireless arm, she arches forward into him. Even with the layers between them, she can feel the broad, defined musculature of his abdomen between her thighs. She swivels against him and sighs into his mouth, grateful for the alleviating contact.

He trails his hand resting on her waist up along her side and back down her spine. Reaching the sensitive part of her lower back, he kneads his fingertips into and around it.

"Mmm…" she softly moans.

The low, heady sound of her arousal drifts into his ears and spreads through his body. His temperature rises. His chest heaves. And the pressure against the line of his zipper becomes all the more keen.

Eager for more of her, he runs his hand across the upper edge of her pants and tries to slip his fingers underneath the thin fabric, but the cinching of a drawstring impedes him. Groaning his displeasure, he slides his hand down over the plaid pattern covering her hip. As he nears the top of her thigh, she raises her legs higher on his back, easing them farther open. Unsure of how to respond, he slows his progress, lingering in the lowest area of her waist.

Sensing his hesitation, she pulls her hands away from his hair and neck, and breaks their kiss. At the loss of contact, he groans again and opens his eyes to find her gazing back at him.

"What?" he worries, discomfited by her apparent reaction to his indecision.

Gently, she asks, "Can you help me?"

Her appeal to his accommodating nature overcomes his moment of diffidence, and he studies her face, wordlessly asking for direction. When she doesn't answer him, he follows the length of her arms down between them, and sees her pulling at the cords of the large bow keeping his pajama pants on her. Understanding, he quickly glances around to reacquaint himself with the surroundings that he all but forgot. As her shaky hands struggle with the overcomplicated knots that she now regrets, he carries her the few steps to the kitchen table and sets her down on the cool surface.

Giving up on the tangled mess, she reaches for his hands, telling him, "I think I made it worse."

He glances down her body as she guides his fingertips to the knot. "You did," he observes, relieved for the brief diversion, as she leaves his hands with the problem and presses hers onto the edge of the table.

She licks and then bites her lower lip, watching him quickly determine where she went wrong. For a moment, she wonders at his hair, unsure of whether it should be as short as it seems. But she abandons her doubt as his fingertips and knuckles brush the skin just above her pants, and her stomach tightens. He pulls at and unties the various loops, and she sighs in relief when the cord around her slackens. Feeling his hands pause, she lifts her lower body off of the perch, granting him her approval. He follows her prompt, slipping his fingers underneath the top hem of the pants, and then pulling them down her legs and onto the floor.

She watches his eyes drift up her skin and hover over the smooth material of her navy boyshorts. Lifting her hands, she rests them on the sides of his face and tilts his head up. The chill left by the table on her palms and fingertips meets his cheeks, and his lips, flushed and full, tremble.

Taken aback by his reaction, she asks, "Did you just shiver?"

"Hmm?" he absently responds, sliding his hands around her back and leaning down to her.

"You shivered," she discerns, moving out of the reach of his mouth. "You can't shiver."

"I just did."

"But you can't."

"But I did."

"Is that bad?"

"No. It's just new."

"Well, maybe we should -"

"- We shouldn't," he interrupts, pressing his lips to hers and silencing her protest.

She whimpers at the firm contact and allows his easy dismissal of his odd reflex. Reciprocating his kiss, she runs her teeth across his lips and swirls her tongue into his mouth. He leans further into her, and lets her go long enough to push away the napkins, placemats, and condiment holders behind her.

Wrapping her arms and legs around him and shifting further down underneath him, she lets him recline her back onto the surface of the table. Hugging him close, she immerses herself in the summery sweetness of his taste, in the imposing dimensions of his figure, and in the heightened warmth flowing past his shirt and filling the air around them. He wraps an arm under her, lacing his fingers into her hair and holding himself up on his elbow, while he runs his other hand along her side and down the skin of her thigh.

Reflexively, she rolls her hips up against the rigidity pushing out against his pants, and he moans into their kiss. Massaging his tongue with hers and arching her back, she entices him further down onto her. Secured by her embrace, he leans his chest into the suppleness of her breasts. She mewls against his lips, and he runs his hand back up her leg. Spreading his fingers against her hip, he gently rocks down between her thighs.

Suddenly, she feels the inexplicable pressure of him pushing into her, and she gasps and shudders at the abrupt sensation. His hearing triggers as her heart takes on a staccato rhythm, and he quickly breaks their kiss, lets her go, and starts leaning away from her.

"Are you okay?" he asks, studying her face.

The alarm in his voice pushes away her fleeting recollection, and she meets his gaze and holds him tight enough to stop him from getting away. "I'm fine," she assures him through labored breaths.

"Did I -"

Hanging onto him as he stands straight up, she reaches for his lips, telling him, "- Of course you didn't."

Still unconvinced, he presses, "Then what just happened?"

She stops short of his mouth, unsure of how to explain the whispers and echoes that have been encroaching upon what she's beginning to sense is her memory. But, more concerned for his fear than for her odd sense of remembrance, she releases him from her embrace, slides off of the table, and replies, "Nothing. I just got overwhelmed or something."

"By what?" he asks, stepping back.

"By nothing that we need to talk about right now."

Keeping him close to her, she grasps his shirt and steers him around the side of the table. His legs meet the seat of the chair that she previously neglected to return to its proper place, and she guides him down onto it.

"Lois…" he tries again.

"I'm fine."

He watches her continue advancing on him until she's lowered herself onto his lap, with her bare legs draped over either side of him. Licking his lips as she scoots forward along his thighs, he makes one last attempt at maintaining his resolve: "You'd tell me, right? If I ever -"

"- You wouldn't, Clark," she whispers, titling her head down and gently pressing her lips to his.

As he sighs away his anxiety and relaxes into her kiss, she reaches for his hands and then circles his arms around her. Welcoming her nearness, he spreads his hands against her back and whimpers as she nips at his lower lip. But when the skin of her knuckles brushes his chest, he pulls away from her enough to glance down. Seeing her fingers slipping the buttons of his shirt out of their corresponding holes, he clenches his jaw and swallows, realizing that they've reached a point that he didn't look beyond when he first pressed his lips to her neck.

Peering back up at her, he quietly asks, "Lois, what are we doing?"

Understanding his hesitance, she recaptures his lips, and murmurs, "We're taking off your shirt."

Her simple reply, meant to keep him from worrying about the things she knows he hasn't considered, achieves its purpose. And he closes his eyes and refocuses on her.

As her hands drift down between them, undoing the last of his buttons, he sits up straighter in his seat and takes his hands away from her back. She pushes the shirt down his arms, then pulls it from behind him and sets it on the table next to them. He buries his fingers in her hair, and she runs her hands along his arms, across his shoulders, and down his sides. Relishing his dips and curves and sinews, and the rippling underneath his increasingly heated skin whenever he moves even the slightest bit, she leans further into him, drawn in by the command of his presence.

The depth of their kiss and her palms, fingertips, and nails running over him send his blood rushing into his groin, and his skin dilates with moisture. Sensing his need, she presses her tongue deeper into his mouth and sweeps her hands around his waist and down his stomach. When she makes her way over the top of his pants and his belt, though, she feels him tense and slightly draw back into the chair. The uneasiness he demonstrated that morning in making a similar retreat resounds in her mind. Careful of pushing him too far past his line of comfort, she slides her hands back up his torso and around his neck, noting his soft gasp as she skims the points of his chest. Pressing forward, she eases him the short distance into the back of the chair and shifts all the way up his thighs. His breath catches at the pressure of her against him, and he trails his hands down her back. Opening her eyes to watch his face, she stretches her arms over his shoulders, bites down on his lower lip, and rolls her hips.

"Unh…" he groans, as a wave of pleasure spreads out from his core to the rest of his body.

She presses into him again, and he takes his mouth from hers and tries to even out his ragged breaths. Pursuing his lips, she closes her eyes and continues rocking into him in long, deliberate strokes.

"Mmh…" he moans, returning her kiss as best he can.

With excruciating persistence, she glides her tongue against his, whimpering and sighing into his mouth as the effects of her slow grind take hold of her too. He brings his hands around to her waist, allowing her the full range of her motions, and luxuriates in the fluidity, the mesmerism of her movements against him.

Altering her rhythm, she swivels her hips down into his lap. Unable to maintain their kiss any longer, he pulls away and gasps. She threads a hand into his hair and runs the other down his arm, and he lolls his head back into her palm.

Feeling her warm mouth brushing against his cheek, he licks his lips, and shakily utters, "Lois?"

"Hmm?" she replies, nuzzling the side of his face, rotating against him with more purpose.

"I'm not sure that, uh…that we should, um…"

Reaching back toward his ear, she purrs, "We're not in public."

"I know. But… I still don't think that I should -"

"- Just tell me when you want me to stop," she whispers, her voice tender and beguiling.

As she ends her sentiment by pressing against him harder than before, he moans, "Mmm…"

Over and over, again and again, she moves along his length and breadth. The heat from his body hits the moisture on his skin, making the air around them humid, thick with his desire. Easing her mouth open, she circles her tongue down his throat, leaving moist kisses along the way. Aimlessly, he runs his hands up and around her sides, vaguely considering lifting her thin top off of her, but too lost in his haze to manage it.

She scrapes her teeth across the curve of his throat, and, in response, he rasps upon feeling a luscious ache that he's not certain he's ever experienced before. "Lois… God, Lois…"

The tone of his voice, laden with want, but markedly free of the strains of exhaustion or deprivation, strikes her too clearly for her to disregard. And for a moment, her mind wanders to when she's heard her name drift past his lips in a similar manner.

Behind her hooded eyes flashes an image of his weathered face, his long, unkempt hair, and his gloomy eyes. Through her body sparks the touch of his cracked lips pressed to her neck, his desperate hands running along her legs, his calloused fingers dragging down her back. And into her mind floods the gravity of his desolation diminishing to the point of nonexistence as he pushed into her again and again.

She squeezes her eyes shut, and then blinks away what she can't help knowing to be memories - elusive and disjointed, but memories all the same. Forcing aside the increasing focus of her revelation, she tightens her hold on his hair and alters her rhythm once more, rocking up and then back down along him.

He shudders at the variation, inching closer to his limit with every roll of her hips, and moans, "Mmh… Lois…"

Missing the feel of her skin, he slips his hands under her shirt. Gliding up her sides, his fingertips reach the smooth band of her bra. He traces around the bottom of the garment, but stops when his thumb meets the raised surface of a scar. Having encountered what's left of the wound that nearly took her life, the wound that she only sustained as a result of his duplicity, he slides his hands back down her waist and rests them on the dark fabric covering her hips.

The damp heat radiating from between her thighs hits the back of his fingers. Without thinking, he starts to gravitate down towards its source, and she whimpers her enticement against his throat. Fraught with the need to touch her - to learn the texture and taste of her desire - but beset by the reminder of her vulnerability, he halts his progress, and his hands begin to shake from the conflicting impulses coursing through him.

His heart pounds harder and faster. And his skin stings and prickles as the pressures of her hand running down his arm and her mouth running back up his neck become acute and very nearly intolerable. Blinking his eyes open, he tries to fight his escalating frenzy, but the lights in the room hit his fully dilated pupils with garish brutality. He lowers his lids, and then winces as her breath and tongue sear across his ear. His mind dizzies and swims, and he tries to find something to rein in his instability. Turning his head toward her, he seeks out her lips, and sighs in relief when she presses her mouth to his.

He clutches at her hips, focusing on her rhythm, struggling to endure the impossibly stifling waves flowing off of her body and burning down into his. But the torrent of pressure building at his core and the flutterings spreading through his thighs warn him that he's hurtling toward the brink. Inundated by the sensations of her tongue stroking into his mouth and her body rocking back and forth into his lap, his chest constricts and his temperature reaches a blistering height. The fabric of her shirt chafes his torso as she moves against him, and her hand cradling his head depresses into his scalp. Still, in spite of his fear of continuing to do so, he only holds her tighter and kisses her more soundly.

Sensing how close he's getting, she tries to pull away from his mouth to ask how much further he's willing to go, but he groans his discontent and pursues her. Indulging him for the moment, she runs the tip of her tongue along his lower lip, and then scrapes her teeth back across it.

Confronted with a pain too severe and too penetrating for him to ignore, his body racks with violent tremblings, and he gasps, "Ahh…"

Her stomach knots at the sound of his anguish, and she opens her eyes and pulls away from him. "Oh, my god!" she exclaims, seeing the fresh bruises covering his throat and arm, and the patches of abrasions spread across his chest and stomach.

She quickly scoots back down his thighs and starts to shuffle off of his lap, but he holds onto her, and brokenly pants, "No. Please, stay."

Despite her reluctance, his desperate entreaty stops her. Studying his clenched jaw, his furrowed brow, and the erratic rises and falls of his chest, she nervously tucks her hair behind her ears and covers her mouth with her hands, uncertain of what else to do. His head hanging, his eyes squeezed shut, he attempts to concentrate on her nearness - to use it as an anchor. But in his mind's eye, he can see her staring at him with both dread and guilt. Grimacing at the thought that he's letting her down, he silently curses his inadequacies and the situation in which he's putting her.

Watching his agitation fail to subside, she intuitively reaches out and gently rests her hands on his chest, almost as if to will its stillness. Upon first feeling the tenderness conveyed in her touch, his mind clears, his tremors cease, and he takes his first even breath.

Almost as quickly as the other signs of his overly heightened state manifested, they diminish and then disappear. His heartbeat returns to a metronomic rhythm. His temperature falls to a balmy degree. His contusions fade and the skin around his abrasions regenerates, leaving him unblemished and robust.

She takes a deep breath, relieved at least to see his balance restored, then slides her hands to his cheeks and tilts his head up. Slowly, he opens his eyes to meet hers.

"Are you okay?" she asks, running her thumbs across the sides of his face.

He nods, the grips of humiliation and defeat keeping him from speaking.

Though recognizing his discomfort, she presses, "That was way worse than the last time."

Sighing, he can only nod again. What he initially hoped to be an isolated incident has lamentably reoccurred, and in a far more unsettling and far more pronounced manner. And that he himself is presenting so substantial an impediment, that he himself is what's keeping them apart distresses him to no end.

Seeing his discouragement in every aspect of his bearing, she hesitates to pursue the matter any further for the time being. But, loath to put off something of such significance, she persists, "I don't understand this, Clark. One second, you're fine. The next second, you're falling apart." When he averts his gaze from hers and doesn't respond, she pulls her hands away from his face, and asks, "Are you allergic to me?"

"No, Lois," he quietly responds, wishing there was a way of tabling their discussion until he's in a less somber mood.

"Then what is it?"

He drops his head and sharply exhales, regretting her investigative instincts. Still reluctant to pursue so sensitive a subject, he shrugs, "I don't know."

She takes a breath, sympathizing with his dejection, but nonetheless put off by his reticence. Shifting around on his legs, she thinks for a moment and considers the possibilities. "Well, it has to be psychological, right?" she offers. "Because your body is so closely tied to your mind?"

Resigning himself to her persistence, he leans forward and hides his face from the scrutiny of her gaze. "Yeah, I guess," he answers, pressing his forehead into her chest.

"Well then, what's going on in your head that's triggering this?" Lifting her hands from between them, she pushes her fingers into his hair. "Am I…?" she trails off, taking a moment to ensure that her tone comes across as receptively as possible. Softly, she begins again, "Am I doing something that makes you uncomfortable?"

"Of course not, Lois," he replies, his chest deflating at the sound of her question. That things have gotten to the point where she has to ask him something like that brings into harsh focus how much his reactions are confounding her.

Even if only for her sake, he replays their three recent interludes in his head, trying to think of the points at which things shifted into too high a gear. As he begins to identify the common thread, he sighs, "It's just that…" Stopping short, he licks his lips and inhales, both disappointed and flustered by the words he's preparing to speak. Focusing on the caress of her fingertips running across his scalp, he tentatively explains, "You make me… It's just that it gets to a point where I can't help needing to…respond… But I'm not sure that I can."

After hearing his last few words, uttered slowly and barely above a whisper, she presses a kiss onto the top of his head, and assures him, "Of course you can. I'm not stopping you."

"That's not what I mean."

"Well, are you just nervous?" she asks, confused as to what he's implying. "Do you want me to…? Can I do something to help?"

At a loss as to how to respond, his throat tightens with his compounding frustrations. He cannot help worrying that they're approaching the limit of what even she can endure, and of what he can, in good conscience, allow her to endure. To be kept at such a critical and palpable distance from someone she cares for so deeply, to someday be asked a lifetime of herself by someone who may never manage to articulate his devotion in so fundamental a way is not something that he wants for her. And for the first time since she returned to him six days after his reveal, he finds himself contemplating the possibility of losing her again.

Knowing his silence to signify that he's losing himself to his self-loathing, she begins to grasp which particular reservation has taken such a physical hold on him. More importantly, she begins to understand how far beyond just a single act that which gives him the most pause extends.

Sliding her hands from his hair and back to his face, she leans away from his head and peers down at him. He takes her cue and grudgingly lifts his eyelids. When his gaze finds hers, she waits several moments, and then says, "Clark, I am going to keep telling you this until you don't need to hear it anymore: You wouldn't hurt me."

She feels the muscles of his jaw clench underneath her palms, and watches his chin shudder. Part of him wants to believe her, but the rest of him balks at the prospect. His ambivalence casts a shadow over his eyes, and she recognizes that he has no way of reassuring her this time.

Unraveling, she slides her hands from his face, and stands up and out of his lap. His stomach sinks at the loss of her nearness and warmth. Knowing better than to pursue her, he remains seated as she begins pacing around in front of the counters on the opposite side of the kitchen.

As she wanders back and forth across the floor, she considers the varying details of their day, and even those of the past several weeks. His descriptions of what he's been experiencing for the last three months, his account of what he felt in her bed that morning and in his dressing room that afternoon, the nuances of his touch when he approaches the more suggestive parts of her - she processes it all.

After a few minutes, she stops midstride and turns to him. Bracing for whatever it is that she has to say, he sits up straighter and takes a breath. She presses the palms of her hands together in a dogmatic fashion, and begins, "I think… I think you're having panic attacks. -"

At the sound of what he didn't expect to be a diagnosis, he leans his elbows onto his thighs and buries his head in his hands, groaning, "Lois…"

"- And I think you've been having them for the last few months," she goes on, speaking over him. "Mild ones, I guess, when we've been at work or wherever else. But still, the frantic feelings, the shakiness, the weird time perception - it all fits. And now, it's like the closer we get, the more severe your reactions are getting."

From behind his hands, he muffles, "Lois, please…"

"Okay. How do you explain it?"

"I don't."

"Well, I do."

"Lois -"

"- Do not 'Lois' me right now, Clark," she warns, the edge to her voice growing sharper with every word. "These panic attacks - or overreactions, or whatever-the-hell _you_ want to call them - have everything to do with you fighting that totally pointless mind-body war that we talked about this morning. And in case you haven't noticed, your body is kicking your mind's ass. Your hearing activates, your skin gets super-sensitive, your body overheats even by your standards, and you pretty much go into a kind of hyperdrive that even the Millennium Falcon never achieved."

Resisting the urge to feed her frustrations by giving into his own, he drops his hands from his face, and asks, "What do you want me to say, Lois?"

The sight and sound of his refusal to fully engage their predicament only exasperates her, trumping her concern with niceties. "You know," she scoffs, narrowing her eyes at him, "you are the suckiest Jedi this side of Tatooine."

"Excuse me?"

She stalks toward the dining table and snatches his pajama pants off of the floor just underneath it, grousing, "The biggest key to being a Jedi is letting go and trusting your feelings."

"What?"

Glaring at him, she shouts, "You have to use the force!"

"Why does your mind turn _everything_ into a metaphor?" he complains, growing weary of her incoherence. "Why can't a thing just be a thing?"

As she wrenches the large bottoms up her legs and over her hips, she retorts, "Because a thing is never _just_ a thing. And the only way you're ever going to defeat the Galactic Empire is if you embrace the force."

"Embrace the force?" he replies, his tone snide.

"Yes, Skywalker!"

"Alright, could you lay off the name-calling until -"

"- Could you pay attention?"

"I _am_. But you're not making any sense," he insists. "Which, I guess, makes you Yoda."

"Actually, smart-ass, I would be Obi-Wan Kenobi, the guy who's trying to get you to the Dagobah system." Glaring at him as she tugs the drawstrings of the pants into a workable knot, she goes on, "But you don't wanna complete your training. So, just like Luke, you're gonna lose a limb and never realize your full potential."

"What are you talking about?" he yells, shooting up from the chair, his anger finally brimming over.

She lets out a long, aggravated groan, and turns on her heel. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head, watching her grab his white tee off of the floor on her way out of the kitchen, and listening to her grumble all the way.

"Where are you going?" he calls after her, following in her wake.

He catches up to her in the living room as she rounds the back of the sofa and passes between it and the oversized armchair. Too big to fit through the small space and wary of being caught midflight, he takes the long way around the chair, and comes upon her again as they cross in front of the longer side of the coffee table. He starts to say something to interrupt her mutterings, but she spins around, stopping him in his tracks.

"Do you plan on dumping me?" she demands, pushing the shirt into his chest.

He stumbles back, thrown as much by her shove as by her question. Taking the shirt from her, he asks, "What?"

"If this continues to be an issue, will you break up with me?"

Having part of the notion he only just began to consider so brazenly set before him, his anger takes on an entirely different complexion. "I'm not even gonna dignify that with a response," he seethes, yanking the top over his head and arms, and down his torso.

"Why not?"

"Because you are _impossible_ when you get like this."

"But I'm not wrong, am I?" she prods, tempering her tenor long enough to make herself perfectly clear. "If you ever manage to convince yourself that I'm better off not dealing with this, if you ever get to the point where you can't imagine us getting through this, you'd break up with me, wouldn't you?"

He bites his teeth and shifts his stance. Wishing there were something around that he could squeeze without ruining it, he runs his hands over his face and through his hair. After clenching his locks hard enough to channel out some of his aggravation, he flatly tells her, "I'm not going to do this with you, Lois," and starts to leave the room.

Affronted, she unleashes, "Don't you _dare_ play the mild-mannered martyr with me! I asked you a question!"

"Where?" he shouts, matching her volume and turning back around to square his shoulders to her. "Where in your pile of metaphors was there a question that made even the least bit of sense?"

"Oh, my _god_! You are the most stubborn son of a -"

"- Name-calling, Lois!" he barks.

"Until you answer me, I will call you whatever I damn well please!"

"Do you hear yourself?"

"Yes! What I _don't_ hear is you telling me that I'm wrong!"

"_About what_?"

"About you pushing me away!"

"Are you questioning how I feel about you?" he fumes, taking a step into the charged space between them. "Are you _seriously_ asking me that of all things?"

Crossing her arms, she glowers, "This isn't about that, Clark! I'm asking what's at stake here! If we keep hitting this particular wall, are _you_ going to put an end to _us_?"

"Oh, for the love of -" he huffs, throwing his hands up and turning away from her. He steps to one side and back to the other, too agitated to remain in one place. Mumbling to himself, he pinches the bridge of his nose and briefly considers answering her question by reminding her that she's the only person to ever give him an actual headache. But, knowing that matters would only deteriorate further from there, he turns back toward her, and grinds out through his gritted teeth, "Lois, I couldn't get away from you if I tried."

"Really?" she dryly asks, unmoved.

"Yes! Really!"

"And what makes you so damn sure?"

"Oh, I don't know!" he bitterly retorts. Rubbing his temples, he begins pacing around near his end of the coffee table, trying to overcome the throbbing in his head long enough to make sure that he qualifies his shouting in a manner that her neighbors won't suspect. "Maybe because no matter the reality, no matter the future, no matter the when, where, or how, I collide _with you_! Maybe because my own personal Yoda, who does not do _anything_ without a reason, and who _cannot_ see the future, sent me _to you_!"

Planting her hands on her hips and cocking an eyebrow at him, she scoffs, "What language are you speaking?"

At his wits' end, he stops his pacing and glares at her. Her posture, her tone, her attitude - every little thing about her galvanizes and ignites every little thing about him. She knows what he's talking about, he's certain. But why she's pretending otherwise, he cannot imagine.

Working through the strain in his throat, struggling to not yell his re-explanation, he grates, "My father could've sent me anywhere in the world after he suppressed my humanity. But he couldn't risk me exposing myself to the wrong person or ending up in the wrong hands. So in the process of retooling me, he probed my psyche for something powerful enough to get through to me, to interest and persuade me, regardless of what version of myself I was. And whatever he found, whatever keys to my universe, amounted to _you_ - to _the most infuriating woman on the face of the planet_!"

He takes a long, cathartic breath, feeling the pain in his head wane. Approaching her, his body having expelled its rage in the process of delivering the thunderous end to his account, he clears his throat, and finishes, "So, Lois, I hope I'm speaking _your _language when I tell you this: My fate has you written all over it. I finally got my head around that twenty-two seconds into this relationship, and not once in the time since have I ever doubted or denied it. Because for all my abilities, I will never have it in me to leave you."

His final words resound into and off of the walls, ceiling, and floor. She doesn't move, and she doesn't say a word, letting him hear for himself that of which she never needed to be reminded.

Studying him, she looks down and back up his towering stature, positioned just an arm's length away from her. Satisfied that he's unloaded enough of his grief, she holds his gaze, and asks the question that's bound to unearth the root of whatever he's been agonizing over: "But…?"

In a less emotional, less exposed state, he may never have accepted - much less vocalized - his response. But as he's still feeling the residual candor of his indignation, the truth spills out: "But I… But I can't ask you to stay. Not with all of the complications that I bring to this relationship. Not when there are things that I don't know that I can give you… Regardless of - No. _Because_ of how much you mean to me, I won't ask that."

She chews her lip and re-crosses her arms, contemplating. Three months prior, his teary reveal made clear, amongst other things, that he knew himself to have forfeited the right to any expectation of a future with her by virtue of his eleven months of deception. And after she returned from her escape, the looks on the faces of their friends just before she asked them where he was, and the image of him fast asleep, clinging to his favorite of her pillows as she came upon him in her bed, spoke to how desolated he'd been in the intervening six days - not knowing where or how she was, subsisting on uncertainties, regrets, and the bittersweet taste of what, to him, was their last kiss.

But she realizes that the hope her forgiveness restored is being worn away by an obstacle of an entirely different sort - that he fears the matter before them could very well cost him the life that he wants with her.

With a better grasp on his mindset than she had before, she considers his last few words, and then gently asks, "Not yet, you mean?"

"…It's not that I don't want to."

Their tacit understanding imbues the air between and around them as they silently regard one another. She uncrosses her arms and he relaxes his shoulders, both of them acknowledging in their own ways that their exchange has reached its end.

Having reaffirmed to himself how inextricably bound to her he is and having exorcized the burgeoning dread that had begun to poison his mind, he finds himself utterly hollowed out.

Exhausted, he breaks their gaze and withdraws. She watches him head for the armchair and consider sitting down. But, reluctant to give her the satisfaction of such an obvious display, he walks around behind it. As he rests his hands on the back of the seat and leans forward into it, she hums a sympathetic sound and follows after him.

His eyes closed, he listens to her soft footfalls and to the legs of his too-long pajama pants brushing across the carpet as she nears him. Making her way alongside him, she slides one hand onto the nape of his neck, and runs the other down his arm. He stiffens a bit and grasps the plush chair back a little harder, determined to not yield to her touch just yet, for no real reason other than to prove to himself that he can.

Amused by his silliness, she starts to smile, but manages to refrain from doing so. After letting him stand on his pride for a short while, she quietly asks, "Do you feel better?"

"What?"

Ignoring his obvious attempt at avoiding the truth, she tries again, "Do you feel better? Now that you've gotten all that out of your system?"

He sighs, and shakes his head, wondering at her talent for both provoking him and coddling him. "I meant what I said," he grumbles, opening his eyes to glance sidelong at her.

Unable to help herself, she smirks, "About you colliding with me?"

"I don't even know why I bother," he mutters, peering up and addressing the ceiling.

"About me being the best babysitter you've ever had?"

"I hate you."

"About your keys?"

"Give it a rest, Lane."

"About your fate?"

"I'm not talking to you anymore."

She lightly laughs and finally relents. "About me being infuriating?"

"Yes."

Still giggling, she trails her hand back up his arm and into the collar of his t-shirt. Tracing her fingers along his collarbone and chest, she teases, "Well, if you didn't like me so much, I wouldn't make you so mad."

"You'll be the death of me. You do know that?"

Stretching up onto her toes and reaching over his shoulder, she presses her lips to his cheek, and softly echoes his remark from that afternoon: "You'll die happy."

Finally, he chuckles a bit and gives in to her persuasion. She slides her hands away from his neck and out of his shirt, and grasps his upper arms, standing him upright and turning him toward her. As she wraps her arms around his back, he rests his hands on her shoulders, waiting for her final word.

She clears her throat in an officious and exaggerated manner, and then tells him, "If for no other reasons than that you couldn't get away from me if you tried, and that I'd never be able to find a super-powered alien hero who cooks and cleans as well as you do, we are going to figure this out."

Holding fast to her assurance, even if he hasn't yet gained her degree of confidence about the matter, he offers her a slight nod and a gentle smile, and runs his hands up to the sides of her face.

As his eyes fall to her lips and he starts to lean down, she interjects, "One more thing, Smallville."

Finding her gaze, he asks, "Yes?"

"You don't have to ask me anything. I'm here now."

The embrace of her sentiment surrounds him, and his eyes brighten. Beaming, he leans down and wraps her up in his arms, letting go of his worries with eventualities and possibilities, and holding his present as closely as possible. With her chin on his shoulder, she smiles, enjoying his huge hug and glad to have struck the right note. He squeezes her tighter and rocks her back and forth, considering picking her up. But, if only to maintain the upper hand that he gained a short while ago on that ongoing point of non-dispute, he decides against it.

After long minutes immersed in the scent of her body and hair, he breathes her in one last time. Then, pulling an arm away from her back, he rests his hand on one of her cheeks, and kisses the other. Feeling the corners of her mouth stretch as she smiles wider, he presses his lips to her cheek several more times, drawing a warm and ticklish laugh from her. She readjusts the position of her hands on his lower back, and sighs, basking in his affection. Taking her hint to continue, he lightly dots his kisses back to her jaw, and then makes his way down her neck. When he reaches a sensitive spot on the front curve of her throat, she tenses and giggles, and he smirks against her skin.

Rubbing her back, he traces his lips over the lines where the thin straps of her bra and camisole end and her skin begins, and insincerely whispers, "I should get back in the kitchen."

"You should," she agrees, much to his disappointment.

"Or, maybe we should make your dinner for two, and I should skip the restaurant."

"You're going."

Pressing a final kiss to her shoulder, he pouts, "I'd rather stay here with you."

"I know," she smiles, her tone indulgent. "But you've still got me for another couple hours or so."

He lifts his head, and runs his eyes over the lines and curves of her face, missing her already.

Recognizing his expression and anticipating his thoughts, she reminds, "Two whole hours, Smallville."

"…I wish we had more time."

All at once, a piercing throb tears through her head, and she cries out, squeezing shut her eyes. Her knees give way and her body collapses. His words hammer against her subconscious in three merciless blows. And on the third strike, they break through.

"_Are you okay?"_

Into a dark void shines a glaring blitz of sight upon sight, smell upon smell, and sound upon sound. Missing slats in dilapidated walls and sheer sheets covering broken windows. Kerosene burning in oil lamps and staleness filling the air. The scrapes of hesitant steps moving across a dirty floor and the silence of an ominous night weighing down a wrecked room.

"_It reminded me of you…"_

The hair in his eyes. The cut on his cheek. The stubble of an imperfect shave. His voice, cracked and dim, flooding into her ears, tearing her apart, drawing her closer to him.

"…_I've made some mistakes."_

Her eyes searching his, asking for answers, desperate to know the misery that has befallen emptiness, his despair overcoming her uncertainty of how her loss could have affected him so deeply.

"_I died when you left."_

Him reaching for her lips, pulling open her shirt, and pressing her into a mattress. His bruised, battered body devouring, taking from hers. Every clutch, every grasp, every stroke. His pounding chest. His desperate breaths. His tears streaming down her fingers as he sees the first glimmers of dawn.

"_I wish we had more time."_

The echo of a single, shattering sentiment as the red sky fades before her eyes and her world goes black.

"Lois…"

"Lois?"

"Lois!"

...


	8. Chapter 8

_[Rating: PG-13 - For occasional mild profanity, for suggestive and mature language, and for moderate sensuality.]_

**CHAPTER 8**

Her consciousness comes in waves: First, the pressure of his hand holding onto her forearm. Then, the freshness of his scent surrounding her. And finally, the sound of his voice rambling away in barely restrained panic.

"…Two minutes and forty-seven seconds ago. She grabbed her head, and then she just kinda passed out… No, I checked all that. Her vitals are fine. She doesn't have a fever. Nothing's broken, nothing's bruised, nothing's bleeding, nothing's blocked. I just can't get her to wake up…"

She tries to tell him that he's wrong and that she is awake, but she can't manage to move her lips. Taking a different approach, she attempts opening her eyes. There too, though, she fails, as the weight of her lids seems too heavy to budge.

"…I don't know. This only happened once before, but that was a long time ago. And if you remember… Yeah… I'm telling you, she's perfectly healthy… Well, she's hypoglycemic, but she ate within the last hour… I don't think so. She's only allergic to wildflowers and pets, and she takes something for both of those… Just my dog, I'm pretty sure… It can't be that. She's not due for another couple weeks. And even so, she mostly just gets crampy and cranky… No, she's not pregnant… More than positive…"

As she feels his hand begin aimlessly and anxiously rubbing her arm, she smiles from the inside, both amused by how much he knows about her and reminded of how much he worries. Being fussed over wasn't something to which she adapted with ease in the beginning of their relationship, just as being invested in someone whose exploits often put her in harm's way wasn't something to which he quickly reconciled himself.

It took months for them to negotiate the lines of her risk-taking and his protectiveness, and, oddly enough, it was his distorted-voiced counterpart who finally convinced her to at least look before she leaps, and to let her worrywart farmboy fret and complain when need be, if only to keep him sane. And though, without fail, one or both of them manages to cross those lines on occasion, at least they understand when they're in the wrong, and when the other is justified in saying so.

"…Look, I'd rather not wait that long. The ER doctors are just gonna run a bunch of tests and end up finding out what I already know… That's just it. If I go as I am, then I won't be able to tell them about her internal stuff. And if I change, then I won't be able to tell them about things like her eating habits. Either way, it's a waste of time… No, no, no. That'd be great. There's more of what you need at Watchtower, though, so I'll take her there. Stuart can keep an eye on her while I come get you…"

At the sound of his intentions, she finally manages to slide her eyes around behind their hoods, and to find some degree of her bearings. Not wanting a trip to his office to delay what she has to tell him, she gathers her resolve and works through her fuzziness. "Smallville?"

"Lois? I'm right here, Sweetheart," he quickly replies, altering his position on the edge of the couch, and searching her face for any sign that she's not just whispering incoherencies.

She inhales, and cracks open her lids. Focusing on him, she makes out his seated body hovering over her supine one, and his unmarred face, bright and smooth as always, if overly wrought with concern. "Did you just let someone hear you call me the 'S'-word? I thought we talked about that."

"It slipped," he smiles, relieved. After wedging his phone between his shoulder and his ear, he readjusts the pillow behind her head as he talks into the receiver. "Yeah, she's coming around… Okay. One second." Addressing her, he gently asks, "How do you feel?"

She shifts around a bit on the couch, checking her range of motion and the feeling in her limbs. Then, she blinks a few times, making sure that she's just about back to her usual sharpness. "I'm fine," she reports, starting to sit up.

"Lois, you need to relax," he says, trying to deter her. "I'm gonna take you to Watchtower so that -"

"- Oh, no, you're not." She scoots back against the armrest and crosses her legs under her while she takes the phone from his shoulder.

"Lois -" he starts to complain.

"- Shh," she quiets, and then clears her throat and begins speaking with the person on the other end of the line. "What's up, Doc?... I'm good. It was just a sudden headache… No tingling, no nausea, no vertigo… Well, if you spent all day looking up at a guy who's got you by nearly a foot, you'd be a little dizzy, too… Okay. In all seriousness, he was holding me and I swooned. Do you watch the news? He does sometimes have that effect on people… Thanks, but I'd rather not. I can't handle both him and Stuart freaking out on me… Wait. Hold on a minute." Covering the mouthpiece with her hand, she takes a moment to observe him looking intently from her head down to her hips. "Are you x-raying me?" she hisses.

"It's more like 'MRI-ing.'"

"Well, knock it off, perv," she insists, nudging the side of his thigh with her knee.

Lifting his gaze to meet hers, he purses his lips, and refutes, "You know that I only ever look past your skin."

"Okay, fine. Gimme a mammogram while you're at it."

"I haven't learned how to do that," he admits, entirely serious and more than a little disappointed that he can't grant her request. "Jor-El only covered basic human physiology and psychology."

"So go speed-read a few medical books."

"I don't wanna leave you here."

"You'd prefer hands-on training, is what you're saying?"

"No. Don't even start -"

"- And then maybe an oral exam, to demonstrate what you've learned?"

"I mean it -"

"- Don't tell me you're not interested in studying two of your favorite subjects."

"Lois!"

"Yes, Clark?"

His cheeks blushing and his entire body flustered, he looks at the phone and then back at her, sharply whispering, "Do you have to do this right now?"

"Anytime, anywhere."

He clenches his teeth and shakes his head, knowing that he shouldn't be surprised that she's flirting with him at a time like this, and knowing that he shouldn't be surprised that he's still affected by it.

"I'm done," she chuckles, nudging him again. "Just give it a rest with the super-seeing." When she notices his expression of scrutiny return, despite him having stopped examining her, she adds, "And don't listen to anything either."

He sighs, rolls his eyes, and gives up. She leans forward, quickly presses her lips to the corner of his frowning mouth, and takes her hand away from the receiver. "Sorry about that. I'm back… Yeah, I'll be fine here. I'm gonna give him some candy stripes and let him play nurse… Gotcha… Thanks. Here he is."

She hands the phone back to him, and he grudgingly accepts both it, and that she's managed to kid her way out of a proper once-over. "Hello?... No, no. She's always like that… Well, if you're sure… That's fine. Any change at all and I'll come get you… Thanks for everything, Emil… Bye."

As he hangs up the phone, she smirks, "I don't think the Watchtower healthcare plan extends to non-employees."

"You're an exception," he matter-of-factly replies, sliding his cell into his back pocket.

"Because?"

He sighs, fully aware that she's avoiding the subject of whatever just happened to her. Nonetheless, he indulges her circumvention a moment longer, and answers her question. "Because you've got ties to so many of us and because you know everything. You're like an honorary member."

"Who happens to be dating the boss?"

"It's not like that."

"Says the alpha."

"I'm not an alpha."

"Only an alpha who's that confident in his alpha-ness would bother being so humble about it," she replies, as he scoots closer to her and rests his hands on her upper arms, both checking her temperature and making it clear that there's something else he'd rather be talking about. Conceding, she finishes her tangent by adding, "Anyway, I don't mind the perks that come with being your 'plus-one.'"

He pauses, takes a breath, and then broaches the matter of which he already knows he won't convince her. "I wish you'd let me take you in to have Emil look you over."

"I know, Clark," she offers. "But what kind of babysitter would I be if I let you visit the office on your day off?"

At the sound of her light reply, he decides against pushing the line of how insistent he can be, and accepts that they're not going anywhere. "No checkup?"

"No checkup."

He slightly nods his head, runs his eyes over her, and corrals his protectiveness in the same way that he usually does - by assuring himself that she'd humor him in seeing a doctor if she felt his alarm was warranted for even the smallest reason. Because short of the concussions, broken bones, and penetrating wounds that she eventually gave him free rein to obsess over, he simply has to trust her judgment and move forward.

Satisfied that she's okay, he looks up at her, only to find an unexpectedly humorless expression on her face. "What?" he worries.

After delaying for a moment, she admits, "I didn't swoon, Clark."

"I could tell."

"It wasn't just a headache."

Trying to remain calm, he steels himself for her reply, and then asks, "What was it?"

"…I remember."

"I don't understand."

She chews her bottom lip and shifts around, trying to think of how best to explain. Feeling his shirt move, he glances down between them to see her nervously fiddling with the bottom hem. Her most meaningful tell pushes his concern to outright fear, and he looks back up at her, searching her eyes for an answer.

Hesitantly, she replies, "It's, um…it's kind of like how it was before we were together, when I'd have stronger reactions to you than normal… There was a moment earlier, in your dressing room, when we were…when I thought… Well, I don't know what I thought. But, then again in the kitchen… It's been like something was trying to get through… And then just now, when you said what you said… I remember, Clark."

"You remember what?" he quietly asks, somehow already knowing.

"…Him."

His stomach knots and his chest deflates as she finishes her brief reply. She studies his face, trying to gauge his response, wondering how much more she should say. When the small space between his eyebrows wrinkles, she recognizes his request for as much of an account as she can give.

She swallows, and takes a deep breath. Cautious in her wording, she pauses and stumbles as she explains, "He'd just finished shaving, and it occurred to me that I'd never seen a razor that wasn't mine in your bathroom at the farm… He was thinner than you are now. Which says a lot about you, because even he was bulky. His hair was longer, shaggier. He had a tan… I'd never seen him look so drained, so small… He told me that things got harder for him around the time I disappeared. Which was really sad, and maybe a little sweet, but confusing all at the same time, because, well, you and me had been kinda distant after Chloe's reception, so I didn't really understand where it was coming from… He cried… And then it was morning, and he told me what you told me… There's nothing else. There's just that room. Nothing before it. Nothing after it."

He slides his hands down her arms to the crooks of her elbows, and takes his gaze from hers, looking off to the side. There was always the chance of her recovering her memories, as they were only suppressed, not erased. But he never actually considered the possibility of something someday making its way out of her subconscious and back into her knowing mind. Processing things as quickly as possible, he exhales in slight relief, grateful that at least she hasn't been subjected to recalling the events that put her in a coma and endangered her life over a year ago. But beyond that immediate consolation lies another matter entirely. He shuts his eyes and hangs his head. Sensing the calm before her impending storm, he braces himself for the conversation he never thought he'd have, and for the exactions that are certain to shake him to his core.

"Do you hate me?"

Her question cuts into his thoughts, taking him off guard. Finding her concerned eyes, he asks, "Why would I hate you?"

"For remembering." She gathers more of his shirt in her hands, twisting and scrunching it. That he wouldn't look at her, she assumes to be a clear sign of his discomfort, perhaps even his resentment.

"No, Lois," he quickly replies, wishing his mind weren't as preoccupied as it is with working out what he can possibly tell her when she fully grasps the circumstances underlying the night she spent in the future. He rubs her arms, doing his best to focus on her present anxiety, and explains, "Those are your memories of your experiences. Just because they happened in a world that no longer exists doesn't make them any less real - not for you. It's not the same as what happened to Chloe and Oliver when you were there. Those were traumatic incidents that were nullified when you came back to the present. But you and him - that wasn't traumatic and that wasn't nullified."

Having not expected such a sensible reply, she asks, "Are you just saying that?"

"I'm not. You should have what's yours," he tells her, careful to assure her of her entitlement to the truth, while not suggesting that he's ignorant of or insensitive to it, its disconcerting nature, or its connection to himself.

"You're being cryptic," she observes, her own thoughts beginning to turn. "What is it?"

Uncertain and unprepared, he wonders whether he should just tell her straight out. Still vacillating, he sits up straighter and slides his hands back to her upper arms. "Lois -" he begins.

"- Wait," she quietly says, her eyes suddenly far away. Just as she cuts him short, his ears zero in on the sudden and irregular change in her pulse, which he recognizes as agonizingly similar to the first time her heart triggered his hearing - the moment she put his two personas together on the night of his reveal. He feels his shirt slacken as she releases her hold on it, and he watches as an unfortunate reality dawns on her.

"His cuts. His bruises… I never wondered about them…" she whispers, looking off to his side and speaking only to herself. "I never thought about what he could do or where he was from. I never thought about him calling me…

"Oh, god," she gasps, closing her eyes and covering her mouth with her hands. "…I didn't know." Her chest tightens as she finds his gaze and breathlessly asks, "I didn't know? He didn't tell me?"

He feels her skin run cold underneath his hands and watches the color retreat from her face. Trying to think of something appropriate with which to respond, he parts his lips to speak, but no sound comes out. Taking his silence as all the answer she needs, she presses on.

"Did he _ever_ tell me?" she pleads, her voice fraught. "At some point before I left, at least?"

He clenches his jaw, and then slightly shakes his head.

"Why didn't he tell me?"

At the sound of the question he's never been able to answer himself, his face falls, and he sighs, "I don't know -"

"- That's not good enough, Clark," she firmly replies, jerking away from him and standing up from the sofa. "That is _nowhere near_ good enough."

He watches her hastily retreat to the other side of the coffee table as he tries to come up with something - anything - to say to assuage her. "Lois, if I knew -"

"- Don't. 'If' does not cut it right now," she warns, her mind racing, her breaths uneven. "Did he at least _consider_ telling me? Did it ever even occur to him?"

His senses discerning every nuance of her body's increasing distress - her rising temperature and blood pressure, the tremors in her jaw and hands, he admits, "I can't answer that."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't know -"

"- Not good enough!" she shouts, her indignation starting to brim. Bringing her hands to her temples, she tries to steady herself - to get her head around how so meaningful an experience could've been based in so fundamental a deception. "I don't understand this. He knew how I felt about him - about _both_ of him."

"Yes, he did," he regrets, rising from the couch slowly enough to determine her reaction to his movements.

"Then why didn't he tell me?" she demands, every word sharper than the one before. "What makes this make sense? Was he not ready? Did he think I'd stop caring about him? Did he think he was protecting me? Did he think I couldn't handle it? -"

As she rattles off her questions and accusations, she moves further and further away from him, feeling her eyes swell.

"- Or is this way simpler than that? Was keeping me in the dark just easier? Was one night worth so much more to him than me?"

At the sight and sound of her revulsion and disillusion, his heart sinks, and he takes the opposite path around the coffee table. "I'm not defending him -"

"- Who the hell asked you to defend him? You _can't_ defend him!" she thunders at full volume, furiously pushing away a tear before it makes its way down her cheek. "Because if he couldn't tell me or if he just didn't want to, then that night _never should have happened_! And him being a better guy than most does not make him lying to me about the situation I was in and about who I was really with any less of the betrayal that it is! -"

Her rebuke, raw and sobering, cuts him to the quick, harshly reminding him that he was once guilty of the same offense.

"- And do I even need to mention that regardless of the rarity of it ever happening between your people and mine, what could've resulted from that night? Do I even need to mention what that would've done to me?"

"No."

"Then _why_, Clark?" she begs, her voice breaking. "You saw more than I remember. You know more than I know. You know you. So why?"

Without thinking, he tries to approach her as he gently offers, "Lois, it's not that I don't wish -"

"- Are you not hearing me? This is not about what you wish!" she shouts, the sinews in her throat protruding. "If you have anything to give me short of an _explanation_, then save it!"

Her rebuke stops him cold. She puts even more distance between them, withdrawing to the nook at the other end of the room. Restlessly pacing, turning here and there near her workspace, she mutters to herself and runs her shaky hands through her hair. She won't cry, she tells herself over and over. She won't cry.

Her eyes burning and her chest throbbing, she turns back to him, and pleads, "You have to help me, Clark. Did I do something wrong? Was I not trustworthy enough? Did I not qualify to be in the club?"

"No, Lois. No, no, and no," he insists, distraught by her line of thinking. "This is _not_ your fault."

"Then what am I supposed to do?" she asks, throwing up her hands. "Chalk this up to 'He didn't know any better'? 'He missed me'? 'He needed me'?"

"Please, don't do that," he tells her, his own voice beginning to falter. "Please, don't rationalize this."

She wraps an arm around her torso, holding herself, and uses her free to rub away the ache in her chest. "Then say _something_. Because I don't remember him having even the slightest hesitation about what he was doing. And I don't understand that. Maybe from any other guy. But not from Clark Kent. Not ever… And definitely not _twice_. -"

At the sound of her exacting tone, his face crumbles and he can only avert his eyes. If there was ever any doubt as to what she learned in the few days that she spent abroad during her escape, it's clear now. She knows. She's known for months. And though, at the time, she was able to overlook his history, to convince herself that his mindset had changed, she'd be a fool to do so any longer, as it's turned out that the same thing happened with her.

"- Because Clark Kent is supposed to be Captain Conservative. Clark Kent is supposed to be the sweetest, most honorable, most selfless guy I've ever known. So how could you, how could _any version of you_, ever do _this_ to _me_?" she demands, a fuming tear sneaking out of the corner of her eye and streaking down her face.

If only there were an assurance he could offer her, he would. But there isn't one. If only there were an account he could bring himself to give her, he'd try. But he cannot conceive of one. And no matter how angry he is on her behalf, there's no denying that he shares some of the blame for her pain. Had his mentality been swayed before she ever disappeared, then perhaps the man he became would've taken better care of her and her emotions. But such is not the case. And both his past and his future have finally caught up with him.

When he still doesn't answer her, she wipes the dampness from her face and turns away from him. Shutting her eyes and holding onto the edge of her desk for support, she works through the changing shades and shapes of her perception of that night. So large a mistruth, so large a rift between the breadth and complexity of what actually was and the narrowness and superficiality of what he led her to believe brings into focus not only the cracked, broken-down circumstances under which she offered him as genuine, honest, and sound a thing as she possibly could, but also a man who couldn't see past his fractured existence and mistaken notions to take into account and to appreciate the effect his actions could have on her.

Her idealization, the surreality of her memories dissipates, exposing the things she managed to disregard, given how she felt about the man she believed him to be.

The too-small, lumpy mattress. The coarse, unwashed sheets. The odor of molding, rotting wood.

The dirt. The grit. The must.

The glass strewn across the floor.

His rushed, groping touch, and his frantic, desperate thrusts.

His artlessness. His inattention.

His body lying apart from hers - not touching her, not even facing her - as she slept and as she awoke.

…How devastatingly ordinary his motives and his character turn out to have been.

That she could have been so wrong about him, she cannot comprehend. That he of all people could take her for granted in so fundamental a way, she cannot forgive. That she ever let him near her, she cannot stand.

Even knowing all the things she didn't share with him, even knowing how limited that experience was by his singular mind gives her no immediate solace.

Feeling the grip in her throat and the flooding behind her eyes, she shakes her head, and starts to leave the room.

"Don't. Please, don't," he calls from behind her.

She turns back toward the voice in her living room, having practically forgotten he was there. "Why not?" she shrugs, tired of asking him for the things he can't manage to tell her. "You don't have anything to say to me."

"But there is no explanation," he dejectedly maintains. "There is no reason in the world that explains - never mind excuses - him not telling you."

"Not. Good. Enough."

As she begins to leave once more, he steps forward and finally gives in. "Alright, Lois. Alright," he sighs.

She halts her departure, crosses her arms over her chest, and holds herself together long enough to hear him out. He clears his throat and briefly drops his head, gathering himself. She doesn't want his sympathy and she doesn't want his comfort, he accepts. She wants the truth, however brutal and however upsetting, from the only viable source that she has for it.

After taking a long breath, he finds her eyes, and evenly states, "You knew, you understood before I did what was building between us. Up until you disappeared, I still hadn't gotten my head around it. And up until you disappeared, I never really wanted you to know, and I never had any intention of ever telling you."

He pauses, studying her indecipherable expression, and swallows the knot in his throat. He shifts his weight and clenches his teeth, despising himself for being able to offer her nothing but anguish.

"The truth," he tells her, "is that there's nothing in your memories that makes me think that that entire year without you gave him anything more than a superficial understanding of what you meant to just one side of him. The truth is that, despite knowing how you felt about both of him and despite knowing how much you'd embraced finding out in the past, he never once considered telling you, he never once considered whether you needed to know, and he never once considered how you'd feel if you someday found out who you'd really spent that night with… The truth is that he never saw anything worth questioning about his actions before, during, or after the fact… The truth, Lois, is that he didn't tell you…because he just didn't."

At the sound of his final few words, she can only close her eyes in defeat, taking on the gravity of so disappointing a reality. He watches her body tremble, verging on coming apart, and can't help moving toward her a step. But, feeling him encroaching upon her even from so far away, she lifts her lids, revealing a harsh glare that wards him off. That expression - the set of her jaw, the severity of her gaze, the flush in her cheeks - he recognizes. She may have only just begun to work her way through one realization, but she's not so entrenched as to be insensible of another - one having to do entirely with him.

Seeing that he understands her, she finally blinks, and the first of many tears to come spills out of her eyes. He watches her turn, barring herself from him, and make her way down the hall to her bedroom. Hearing her door close, he pushes away the dampness threatening to fill his own eyes, and quietly follows after her.

Respecting her privacy, he consciously foregoes the use of his abilities, and relies upon the things he can normally discern to determine her actions. The sound of her throwing something that doesn't make all that much noise as it lands on her floor meets him as he nears her door - as do the subsequent sounds of sniffling and muttering as she yanks open a dresser drawer, doesn't bother to close it, and then frantically searches for something on her vanity table, knocking several things off of it in the process. She's changed out of his pajama pants, he decides, and she's put up her hair - two unmistakable indications that she wants nothing to do with him right now.

Staring at the off-white plane of her door, he wonders whether he should say something, if only to let her know how nearby he is. But the only person such an articulation would console is himself, he silently acknowledges. And it'd be unfair for him to let his natural reaction to any display of her unhappiness and his need to make it go away blind him from the fact that she, who's as highly attuned to him as he is to her, knows exactly where he is at this moment.

He hears her gasps and sobs grow stronger as she shuffles around her bed to her nightstand, and grabs something off of it. Then, from an area directly opposite the door keeping him from her comes the rustling sound of her sinking to the floor and leaning back into a wall. After she's apparently settled, he listens to her take a long, heaving breath, and then let her tears flow freely. Thinking back to earlier in the day, he recalls the items resting on her bedside table, and he realizes what she took from the small surface: tissues.

Standing outside her room, exiled from her presence, he regrets that the only option he's left her is to cry out her pain all by herself. If she should be able to turn to anyone, it should be him - it always has been him. But he's tainted, disqualified from taking care of her by virtue of his association to his counterpart, a man for whose disregard he is at least somewhat culpable, a man who committed the one offense she never had nor ever would abide: emotional betrayal.

He himself has pushed that line twice before, when he refused to address what nearly happened between them at her cousin's wedding reception, leaving her sitting alone at a table for two, swallowing the lie she knew he was telling, and also when he finally admitted to carrying on two separate relationships with her for nearly a year. Both times, he suffered the same consequence for his near-ruinous transgressions: distance. After the coffee he never met her for, she kept herself apart from him for months, and made it clear that she expected him to do the same. And after his reveal, she vanished, cutting off all contact with him for the longest six days of his life, while she dealt with his duality and his deceit.

Banishment, for however long and to whatever extent, is the price he always has and always will pay for mishandling or mistaking her.

But for his future-self, there'd be no affectionate gesture signifying the end of his exile - no moonlit kiss to pull him from his dreams, no midday embrace to welcome him back to his life and to hers. Because this, an emotional betrayal inestimably exacerbated by so penetrating, so physical a trespass is firmly over the line that he himself has only ever approached. And especially perpetrated by him - by one of the few people with whom she's ever trusted herself, by perhaps the only person who remained loyal to her and present in her life no matter the status of their relationship, by the man upon whom she bestowed his new name precisely because she believed him to be, in every aspect of his life, so different, so extraordinary - such an offense is simply unforgiveable.

After a long while - an eternity, by any calculation of his - he hears her sobs subside, and hears her pulling several tissues from her box all at once. As her mourning for the loss of the person she thought his future-self was and her purging of the heartache over the person his future-self turned out to be near their ends, he regrets each of the tears that have fallen from her eyes, and every second she spent with a man who wasn't worth a single one.

The space within her room grows quiet, except for the occasional sniffle and the occasional sigh. He can practically feel her, rid of the future, looking up from the tissues scattered around her and staring directly at the door opposite her, readying to confront the present. He gathers himself as best he can, knowing what he'd jeopardize in failing to answer her clearly and candidly.

He listens to her body shift out of its seated position, and then to the silence that follows. Assuming that she's moving around, but unable to figure out where to without the sounds of his pajama pants scuffing across the carpet or her disturbing various items within the room, he forgets his preparations, and waits for any indication as to her current position.

All of a sudden, the door in front of him swings open and she appears, already looking up at exactly where she knew he'd be. He starts at the surprise, and, repelled by her ire, instinctively takes a few steps back, situating himself completely out of her personal space. She doesn't say anything at first, and he takes the time to regard her appearance. His chest wrenches at the sight of her swollen eyes, her red nose, and her flushed lips and cheeks. Even the skin of her arms, chest, and shoulders, still bared by her tank top, and the skin of her legs, now bared by a pair of boxer shorts, show similar signs of her exertion. It's all he can do to keep himself from trying to hold her, but, understanding that he's forbidden from being too close to her, never mind touching her, he resists all the same. His eyes find hers, white-hot and exacting, and he watches her step forward into the doorway and cross her arms over her chest.

In a low voice hoarse from her sobs, she asks him, "You know what I want to know, don't you?"

"Yes," he simply responds.

Getting right to her point, she demands, "Was it your powers, Clark? Was it your powers that stopped you from trying to with me before you told me? Because past and future, when you haven't had them, you haven't hesitated. So what was so different about this time?"

Her charge pulls the air from his lungs as he reckons with the reality of his behaviors and mentalities in the presence of the woman whose esteem means more to him than he'd ever be able to quantify, and whose present uncertainties - uncertainties that call into question every facet of every one of his relationships with her - quite expectedly jostle his very foundation.

He swallows, takes a deep breath, and looks her in the eye. "First," he replies, staid and resolute, "there is no justifying my future or my past. I do understand and I do regret how wrong I was."

"…Does she know that?"

"Yes."

"Second?"

"Second," he goes on, "I wouldn't want to be anything other than who I really am with you any more than I'd ever want you to be anything other than who you really are with me."

"So was it your powers that stopped who you really are from trying to?" she sighs, with a tone he recognizes as heavy with doubt, even resignation. "Are you just like everyone else?… Are you just a man, Clark?"

He clenches his teeth and adjusts his shoulders, taking on the weight of her misgivings. Maintaining his resolve, he straightforwardly responds to her initial question: "What stopped me was seeing him lie to you. What stopped me was watching him do exactly what I had done in my past, and very likely would have done again in my present, given similar circumstances. What stopped me was hating him for accepting something so honest and so meaningful from you, without even a thought as to telling you the most basic thing about himself… There is no excuse for him doing that to you. There is no excuse for me doing that to her." He pauses, looking down and off to the side for a moment, before finding her gaze again and digging deeper: "I am not proud that it took me seeing your memories to shake me out of my selfishness and my inconsideration… But that is what it took."

She sharply exhales, and leans her weight against the doorjamb, studying him with something he cannot identify. "Anything else?"

"Yes." With every bit of the conviction he feels, he tells her, "I need you to know that I entered this relationship with absolutely no intention of being intimate with you or of getting anywhere near intimacy with you until after you knew everything. I _never_ struggled with that decision and I _never_ gave the issue a second thought, because you needed and deserved to know the whole truth before deciding whether to pursue a physical relationship with me.

"Lois, I will _never_ risk what we have or give you cause to question how you see me by doing something that so fundamentally disrespects or betrays you… I am not who I was… I am not who I became… And I am not just a man."

She shifts again and licks her lips, letting his accounts and assurances linger in the air. After several moments, she crosses her arms a little tighter, and glares at him a little harder.

"If you were any of those things," she quietly and firmly replies, "you'd never put a hand on me again."

His entire body shudders as the sound of her avowal makes its way through and down into him. For something so damning to her belief in him, he would deserve nothing less than to be banished for a lifetime, he knows. Because she holds him to the same standard that he holds himself. She holds him to the same standard that the man who sent him to her holds him. And if in her eyes of all he cannot be the person that he has strived to become - an epitome of the best and most essential virtues of humanity, an ideal to which all the people of his adoptive world can aspire, an entity worthy of so great a name - then he has failed not only her, but also himself.

After taking a considerable moment to grasp how close he came to being the reason for her tears and to being forever cast out of her orbit, he simply nods his head - hearing, understanding, and acknowledging.

She takes her gaze from him and unfolds her arms. Covering her face with her hands, she mumbles something to herself, and exhales a long, cathartic sigh. He watches as she drops her hands from her face, pushes off of the doorjamb, and slowly approaches him. The knotting in his chest untangles and the weight on his shoulders lifts as she reaches out to grasp the bottom of his shirt. Carefully, she smoothes out the area that she wrinkled and wrung, assessing the damage.

Peering up at him, she admits, "I ruined it."

"I like it better that way," he gently replies.

She chuckles a bit and shakes her head. He smiles in return, relieved to see the cloud over her features part, and her usual glow shine through.

Abandoning his tee, she lifts her arms and drapes them over his shoulders, asking, "Could you…?"

The sound of her request, her simple way of confirming his return to her good graces, revitalizes him. Obliging her, he bends down and circles his arms around her back, then stands back up, lifting her several inches off of the carpet. Wrapped up, weightless in his embrace, she closes her eyes and tilts her head down into the curve of his neck, breathing him in. He holds her to him with one arm, and rubs her back with his free hand.

"Thank you," he hears her whisper after several long moments.

"For what?"

"For giving me all of you."

He slides his hand up to the nape of her neck, underneath her ponytail, and holds her a little tighter. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For accepting all of me."

She smiles at his sentiment, feeling him rock her back and forth. As her feet gently sway midair, she soaks up the care and attention that have always emanated and overflowed from his hugs. He never just squeezes her and pulls away. He always cradles her, cuddles her. Inhaling, she remembers launching herself into his arms the moment he returned from what she believed at the time to be weeks of familial obligations. And in the middle of the bullpen, with their coworkers bustling about and with the endless commotion of ringing phones and keystrokes surrounding them, he held her, content as always to do so until she was ready for him to let her go.

After relishing his warmth and his strength for a while longer, she pulls away from his neck, and quietly tells him, "You can put me down now."

"I don't have to," he offers. "You can stay as long as you want."

"I know."

Content with her assurance, he leans down and softly rests her back on the floor. She pulls her arms away from his neck, and then, as he stands upright, he watches her rub her eyes and hears her groan. Assuming that she's wound up with burning eyes and a throbbing headache from the strain of so many tears, he starts to lift his hands to her face, but she steps around him and starts down the hall. When he begins to trail behind her, she turns back and grasps his shoulders.

"Stay."

"Why?"

"Don't argue with me."

Letting her have her way, he remains where he is as she takes off once more. He watches her round the corner into the kitchen, and hears her turn on the faucet in the sink. Waiting patiently, he listens to the sounds of her splashing water, probably onto her face, and then pulling open the refrigerator and rifling through it. He rolls his eyes, imagining the mess she's making, knowing that she's neglecting to put things back in their proper places. When she's found whatever she was after and closed the fridge, he hears the clinking of cutlery as she slides open a drawer and grabs something. As she reappears into the hallway, he realizes why he was told to stay put when he sees the pint of ice cream in her hand. He shakes his head at her odd means of alleviating her symptoms, but, given what she's just been through, he doesn't complain.

He watches her walk past him and into her room, disappearing from his sight again. Without further instruction, he looks from the kitchen to her bedroom, and then back again, wondering what she wants him to do. In his uncertainty, the rustle of her linens reaches his ears as she sits down on the edge of her bed, and then stops moving.

"Are you coming?" he hears her ask.

Having finally gotten some direction, he walks toward her room, wishing she had just dragged him around like she usually does and thus saved him the confusion. Making his way through the door, he quickly examines the space before him and discovers the disarray exactly how he expected it. As he trails his eyes over to her, he finds her fighting with the tamperproof plastic seal on the small carton. He smirks, reminded of how the most basic things - knots, price tags, and especially phone cords - always give her the most trouble.

She groans and huffs, frustrated with the packaging, and looks up, giving him a plaintive expression. Cooperatively, he walks over to her and takes the problem out of her hands.

"I could stand to hear something sappy right about now," she says, rubbing the back of her neck.

As he tears the plastic seal along its perforated line, he studies her face, deciding, "You kinda look like you did after we took Shelby to the groomer's that time."

"Is that your way of telling me that I look like crap?" she scoffs.

"That's my way of telling you that even when you're red and puffy, you're still the most beautiful woman in the room."

"I'm the only woman in the room."

"I always think so."

She chuckles, and shakes her head. "Cute. But for someone who writes for a living, still terrible."

"Fine," he insists, handing her the carton. "From now on, you're getting nothing but other people's material."

"Oh, don't pout -"

"'- Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?'" he quotes, kneeling down onto the floor beside her.

"Stop -"

"'- Let me not to the marriage of two minds admit impediments.'"

"Knock it off -"

"'- But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?'"

"Okay, you've made your point," she concedes, shoving him in his shoulder. "You can feed me your crappy lines."

"Thank you." He watches her rub her eyes and blink a few times, and then pull the lid off of her ice cream. Glancing from her to the mess in her room, he clenches his teeth and frowns at the fallout of his counterpart's actions. Looking back at her, he gently instructs, "Close your eyes."

"Why?" she demands, as she's just about to dig into what she thinks of as their post-conflict treat.

"Don't argue with me."

Sulking, she lowers her lids. Just as her vision darkens, she feels two small bursts of air waft through her hair. Opening her eyes, she finds him exactly where she left him, but with three various sized bottles by his side. Beyond him, she sees her vanity and the area around it put back in their proper orders, the tissues and pajamas that she left strewn across the floor no longer there, and her dressers pushed back in.

She starts to protest to him yet again cleaning up after her, but he cuts her short, insisting, "Closed."

Pursing her lips, she does as told. She hears him shift closer to her and quietly inhale. Then, she feels a soothing breeze of deeply chilled air blowing across and around her lids. The stinging and burning of her irritated skin and nerve endings quickly diminish, and she sighs at the relief.

When he's satisfied that enough of her inflammation has gone down, he stops exhaling, and asks, "Better?"

"Better," she smiles, opening her eyes.

As she presses a thank-you kiss to his brow, he slides the ice cream and spoon from her hands. Watching him set her things aside and then twist off the tops to a water bottle and an aspirin bottle, she wonders, "Do you really know all that Shakespeare?"

"Every word of every piece that I've ever learned," he replies, handing her the water and two pills.

"Because?"

"Because I don't forget things." Watching her swallow the painkillers, he goes on, "All the stuff that I've read, seen, or heard is in my head. It's just a matter of me remembering that I know it."

"Hmm… So what did you have for breakfast on, uh…September 12, 1993?"

"I was six," he responds, taking the water from her and putting the caps back on it and the aspirin. "The memory thing didn't really kick in until a few years ago."

"Okay. So what was I wearing the day you mauled me in the bullpen?"

He starts to hand the ice cream back to her, but stops at the sound of her characterization. "I did not maul you."

"Yes, you did," she retorts, taking the spoon and the pint from him.

After giving her a pointed glare, he reaches down next to him and picks up the tiny third bottle. Taking the top off of it, he asks, "How do you even know what you were wearing?"

"I may not have your memory, but I do remember what I was wearing when you mauled me for the first time."

"Do you have to call it that?" he complains, as she tilts her head back.

"Mm-hmm."

As he leans the bottle over, letting a few alleviating drops trickle into each of her eyes, he moves past her phrasing, and lists, "Brown heels. Brown skirt. Brown jacket. Pink shirt."

"The suit was chocolate," she clarifies, blinking around the moisture. "The blouse was tea rose."

"And the underwear was magenta."

Titling her head back down, she chuckles, raises an eyebrow at him, and asks, "You peeked?"

"Of course not," he replies, closing and setting down the eye drops. "Before I left to go visit Chloe, you'd just taken my latte from me, and as you were drinking it, you said something about wishing you would've reconsidered wearing a magenta bra under such a light top. Then, you went on for another ten minutes swearing that you'd kill the maintenance crew if the air-conditioning went on the fritz again, since you'd be stuck wearing your jacket all day in case the magenta showed through."

Giggling at his recall, she skims her spoon around the top of her ice cream, and offers him the first bite. "Why did you say 'underwear' at first? Why didn't you just say 'bra'?"

"I just assumed the top was the same as the bottom," he shrugs, letting her slide the banana-flavored confection into his mouth. "Your underwear always matches."

"How do you know that?"

"I've lived with you. I've zipped you into too many dresses to count. And I've done your laundry. Your underwear always matches. It's one of your quirks, I guess."

"Do you like that my underwear always matches?" she needles, taking advantage of their turn in conversation.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"I'm not answering that."

"Why not?"

Realizing the position in which he's unintentionally gotten himself, he pauses for a moment as he reaches his hands around to the nape of her neck and begins kneading away the tension. "Because, um…" he trails off, searching for as tactful a response as possible. "Because your underwear isn't really my business."

She laughs, deeply and wickedly, at his reserve, and feeds him another bite. As she pulls the spoon from his lips, she lowers her voice, and replies, "First: My underwear _is_ your business, seeing as I don't buy these things without considering your tastes. Second: Your underwear is _my_ business, seeing as what you have on now and what you wore last night are brand new, and I know that you know that they're also my favorite colors." Watching the blush rise in his cheeks, she grins and purrs, "So, do you like that my underwear always matches?"

He clears his throat, sliding his fingertips up to the base of her scalp, continuing his light massage. "Whatever you're comfortable with is fine by me."

"Are _you_ comfortable with what I'm wearing now?" she persists.

"Lay off, Lane."

"Answer my question."

"Yes," he huffs, reflexively glancing at the navy strap running back across her shoulder. "I like what you're wearing now."

"'Like'?" she teases. "I only asked if you were comfortable."

"Leave me alone."

"If you had your way, what would I be wearing?"

"I really hate you."

"I know your favorites."

"I don't have favorites."

"You're lying."

"…You're just trying to get me to admit to something."

"I'm not. I already know."

Her even, confident tone takes him aback, and he slowly asks, "How?"

"Because whenever you do my laundry," she explains, her amusement plainly evident, "there are always certain things on the tops of the finished piles. I'm guessing that you sort and fold those last because you like them the most."

He thinks back to the handful of times he's talked her out of needlessly relying upon the cleaners by offering to take care of her clothes for her. Sure enough, there was always a certain cut and certain shade of garment that he got around to last. He blinks a few times and licks his lips, confounded by how she picks up on such things. Nonetheless, he denies, "That's just a coincidence."

"Still lying. I'm right, aren't I?"

"You shouldn't eat too much of that," he deflects, looking down at the contents of the carton from which she's yet to partake. "You'll ruin your dinner."

"Shut up," she giggles, sticking another spoonful into his mouth.

As he chews the fudge chunks and walnuts in his bite, she reaches around behind him and slips a hand into his back pocket, retrieving his phone. He moves his fingers around to her temples and begins rubbing small circles into her skin while she presses several buttons. Bracing the phone between her ear and her shoulder, she waits for the person on the other end to pick up.

"Hi… Why would this be Clark? My voice is nowhere near as deep as his… Because I don't have my cell on me… Never mind that. I'm calling to confirm your date… Well, I told you he'd cave eventually… Right here… Massaging my temples and eating my ice cream…" Covering the mouthpiece of the phone, she whispers, "He says hi."

He mulls over his options, remembering their conversation and his concession from earlier. Then, sliding his hands from her, he takes the phone and holds her gaze. "Hello?" he says into the receiver. "Pretty good. Yours?... Well, Perry's always like that. You should see him and Lois when they argue… Almost every day, about something or other… Tell me about it… No, it's just a headache. She'll be fine… I don't mind. You're in the penthouse, right?... Sounds good… Yeah. Here she is."

Grinning from ear to ear, she accepts the phone from him and kisses his cheek. Glad to be able to please her, he returns her smile and resumes his massage while she finishes her conversation.

"Hi… I have that effect… No, thanks. He's making me chicken and way too many vegetables… Jealous much?... Very funny. Anyway, I have to go… Yeah, yeah, I know… No worries. He'll say yes. Call me tomorrow?... You, too… Bye."

As she hangs up his phone and slides it back into his pocket, he asks, "I'll say yes to what?"

"None of your beeswax," she teases, and changes the subject. "What was he saying about his hotel?"

"He figures it'll be better than the restaurant, since we won't have to be so careful about whatever we talk about. So he's just gonna have his chef make a bunch of stuff."

"I don't know if I like the idea of you two practically alone, in a confined space."

"We'll behave," he assures her.

She smirks, and leans forward to nuzzle his nose with hers. He gently laughs at her gesture, and at the tickling sensation that he's never known from any other person's touch. As she pulls away and closes her eyes, he threads his fingers into her hair and continues making therapeutic circles across her scalp. His gentle, healing touch soon remedies her initial pangs, and she lets out a long, gentle sigh. Sensing her relief, he slows his massage to a stop and slides his hands down to her upper arms. Her gaze finds his, and she waits for what she's sure he wants to ask.

"Do you wanna talk about it some more?" he quietly offers.

She takes a breath, digging her spoon back into her pint, and then replies, "Not really."

After she's given him yet another bite, he says, "I'm sorry that he didn't tell you, Lois."

"So am I," she shrugs.

"I'm sorry that it took me so long to tell you."

"I know," she says. "But you were always going to tell me. And for as frustrating and difficult as it was to find out, there's nothing about that prior eleven months that I regret. And there's nothing about that prior eleven months that makes you any less of the…super guy…that I'm looking at right now." She puts her spoon into the same hand as her carton, and rests her empty hand on his chest. "I told you earlier," she reminds, tracing his shield across his shirt, "who you've become is what sets you so far apart - even from yourself."

His body swells with vigor and his skin tingles with vitality as she finishes her sentiments. She watches as he takes her hand from his chest and brings it to his lips. Closing his eyes, he presses several soft kisses into her palm and across her fingertips. Showered in his affection, feeling the curve of his mouth against her skin, she contemplates a change to her immediate plans.

"Smallville?" she whispers, after letting him continue for a short while longer.

He glances up at her, murmuring, "Hmm?"

"I think I'm gonna take a bath."

She feels him pause, and feels his lips descend into a frown. Suppressing a chuckle and knowing that he's assuming that she's kicking him out, she watches him pull together a response that doesn't betray his disappointment.

"Okay," he says, giving her a small smile. "You probably won't be outta there before I head out, will you?"

As she puts the top back on the ice cream that she now realizes she forewent in preference of his fussing, she replies, "Definitely not."

"So, um…" he wonders, as she hands him her spoon and her pint, "I'll just finish cooking and leave you a plate in the oven?"

"Sounds like a plan."

"Alright," he replies, resting her hand on her leg and gathering the bottles off of the floor.

She watches him stand up and head into her bathroom without saying another word. After she hears her medicine cabinet open and then close, she sees him reappear, with only her water, ice cream, and utensil in hand. Before making it out of her bedroom, he stops, mumbles something to himself, and then walks back over to her. Bending down, he presses a quick kiss to her temple, and tells her, "Enjoy your bath."

As he turns back toward the door, she asks, "Did I hurt your feelings?"

"No."

"Liar," she counters, getting up and reaching for his hips. He grudgingly faces her, and she giggles, "You're pouting."

"I'm not pouting."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he denies. Looking around the room, he tries to think of a way to delay his exit. "Do you want me to run the water for you?" he suggests, finding her eyes.

"No, thanks. I've got a system."

Giving her as much of a smile as he can manage, he nods, and starts to leave again.

"But…"

Turning around in hopes of a task, he asks, "Yes?"

"I think I may have overdone it again," she says, gesturing toward the top of her boxers. "Do you mind?"

"No," he quickly replies, setting his things down on the floor and making his way back over to her. Standing in front of her, he reaches for the bottom hem of her camisole, and lifts it up and over the top of her boxers. His eyes briefly wander to the newly exposed sliver of skin low on her belly, and he clenches his jaw, forcing himself to focus. She smirks, watching lines of concentration forming on his brow. As he folds over and studies her waistband, his face falls in confusion. Looking up at her, he observes, "There's no knot."

"Really?" she asks, peering down and feigning surprise. "Oh. Well, I guess we can't all have super-powered memories."

He chuckles, and starts to put her clothes back in place, only to find her lifting her hands straight up over her head. Doubtful, he raises his eyebrows in question.

"After the dressing room and the kitchen, it seems only fair," she quietly responds.

He bites his teeth and clears his throat, uncertain as to what he's done to deserve being tormented. Gathering himself, he lowers his gaze to her waist and grasps the bottom of her shirt. His eyes follow the thin fabric as he carefully lifts it up her sides and off of her arms. As she takes the top from his hands and tosses it behind her and onto the bed, he swallows, resisting the urge to look down. He starts to ask if she needs anything else, but she anticipates him, taking his hands and bringing them to her hips.

Struggling to maintain the composure he doesn't feel, he slowly sinks down onto a knee and quickly sweeps his eyes down her figure, reminding himself to not stare. Though painfully aware of being just about eyelevel with the material enveloping her full curves, he keeps his attention lower on her body. Slipping his fingers into the waistband of her boxers, he bends down a bit as he slides them over her hips and down her thighs. He holds still, and she uses his shoulders for balance and steps out of the garment. Just as she lowers her second foot back onto the carpet, the lingering scent of her arousal meets his senses. His head spins and his stomach tightens as he breathes in her warm, enticing notes. Reflexively, he licks and then bites his trembling lower lip, and swallows the excess moisture spreading across his palate.

He blinks a few times, gathering his balance, and then rises from the floor. As he shifts his position, he winces a bit, feeling his pulse settle in his groin. Fighting to keep himself together, he offers her her shorts, satisfied that he's met her challenge.

She holds his gaze as she takes the item from him and drops it on the floor. Whispering, she asks, "Do you still like what I'm wearing?"

He sighs, realizing that she's not done with him yet. Resting his hands on her waist to keep himself steady, he pauses, and then looks down between them. His pulse quickens and the weight at his core increases as he gradually trails his eyes up her calves and thighs, across the surface of her boyshorts, and along the tight plane of her stomach, before settling on the balconet bra cradling her breasts, pushing them up and out. He follows the lines where the dark material ends and the light swells of her flesh begin, and loses himself to the contrast of colors, and to the subtle movements prompted by her breaths.

When he eventually feels her resting a hand on his face, he's unsure of how long he's spent taking her in. Coming back to himself, he looks up at her with heavy eyes and flushed cheeks that answer her question without him saying a word.

She smirks, and slides her hand around his neck, easing him down. He closes his eyes, shifting closer to her, feeling himself stir against the inside of his pants. He parts his lips in need of her touch and taste, but finds himself left sorely deprived as she presses a light kiss to his brow, and then leans away from him.

Thrown, he opens his eyes as she sweetly says, "Thanks for helping."

"You're, uh… Y-You're welcome," he manages to respond, after spending a few moments finding his voice.

"You can leave the door open."

Hearing her cue, he starts to ask her something, but his mind can't quite catch up to the scents and sights still stimulating his senses. Uncertain as to what just happened or as to what's going on, he only realizes what he's supposed to be doing when she takes her hand away from his neck. Jarred by the loss of her contact, he reluctantly drops his hands from her waist and turns to gather the things he left on the floor. As he bends down, he's reminded of what he's sure is an all-too obvious sign of his current state.

Mindful of squaring back around to her, he looks over his shoulder, and quickly offers, "Let me know if you need anything."

"Will do," she replies, watching him leave.

When she's heard him make his way far enough down the hall, she clears her throat and rolls her head, shrugging off the renewed warmth that his intense, enraptured gaze ignited between her thighs. Missing him already, she exhales a long sigh, heads off to prepare for her bath, and hopes that he doesn't spend too long agonizing over whether to join her.

...


	9. Chapter 9

_[Rating: PG-13 - For occasional mild profanity, for suggestive language and dialogue, and for mild some sensuality.]_

**CHAPTER 9**

Without her around to watch, taunt, chat with, or otherwise engage him, and thus having sped through as many as possible of the remaining steps in preparing her dinner, he places the finished meal items in the oven, and turns his attention to cleanup. Looking around the empty room, he lowers his eyes, regretting her absence, and then sulkily zips his way through straightening up the pantry and refrigerator, wiping down the counters, and washing, drying, and putting away the dishes. As he decelerates to his normal speed and waits for the water in the sink to drain out, he hears the faint sound of her closing her bathroom door, and assumes that she's finished her pre-soak rituals - the first of which, he silently grumbles, was getting rid of him.

He sighs, confused as to whether he's being punished for something he's certain he didn't do, or whether she's just tired of him after so many uninterrupted hours in his company. And though, given a choice, he'd take her being upset with him over her being bored with him, even the former can't possibly be the case, he reasons, given the way they left things a little while ago. In fact, he felt certain at the time that he'd earned a kiss of an entirely different sort than the one he received for completing the task of undressing her without doing whatever it was that he wasn't supposed to do. But, in the end, she only politely told him to get lost without even so much as a punch in the arm and a curt remark as a goodbye. So maybe he did do something wrong, he entertains. Or maybe he just didn't do something right.

After rinsing the sink and blow-drying his hands, he turns to regard the final disheveled area of the kitchen - the dining table. Slowly, he approaches the scene of their most recent interlude, hesitant to change anything at all about the reminders of her touch and her sounds - of the sensuality that's such a fundamental part of who she is, and is so distinct in its complexion and its complexity when shared with him.

His body stirs at the memory of her arms around him and her mouth pressed to his. But, shaking his head, he pushes away thoughts that will only lead to discomfort, and slides the chair that she eased him down onto back into its proper place. As he moves around to the side of the table, he looks toward the entryway of the kitchen, wondering what she's doing and how she is. Maybe he should check on her, he briefly considers. Maybe she needs something. But then, he's sure that she'd say so if that were the case. And he shouldn't make whatever he may have done to land himself in his current position worse by bothering her, especially when she's made it clear that she wants to be alone, or at least that she doesn't want to be around him.

In his mind, he can hear her mocking him for pouting, and then insisting that he get a grip. After taking a deep breath, he follows her likely advice and dials back his defeatism as he resituates the napkins, placemats, and condiment holders. She enjoys being around him, he's certain. Even after spending an entire day at work and then spending an entire evening out in the city with him, she'd still try to get him back to her apartment for an hour or two of one-on-one time. Which makes her putting a bath in between them beyond his comprehension. After all, if nothing else, keeping him at a distance he doesn't deserve flies in the face of the freedom she's encouraged him to have with her ever since she let him hold her hand for the first time.

That simple gesture, wholly unexpected and wholly affecting, made explicit what had long only been implied - that she wanted all of him, and that he could have all of her. Whether in public or in private, he could talk to her, touch her, hug her, hold her, kiss her - whenever, however, whyever. She invited, she delighted in every bit of his affection, even during the many months when its limits were so tightly drawn. And it was also that simple gesture that put into perspective the years of nuance to her interactions with him. How she hardly ever questioned him standing in her personal space, hovering over her, or sitting closer to her than he should. How he never had to hesitate about grasping her shoulders to comfort her, or her arms to get her attention or to direct her away from tense situations. How not having that access to her always struck him harder than he could ever possibly ignore when she pulled away from him emotionally, and thus physically. He'd never experienced such a unique dynamic with anyone else before he crash-landed into her life, and he hasn't experienced anything like it with anyone else since.

In the beginning, he thought her odd, even absurd. He couldn't understand why any woman would wrap an unclothed, full-grown man in a blanket, buckle him into her front seat, and personally escort him around until she was certain he was taken care of - all while taking every opportunity to insist that he was the unusual one. He couldn't understand her genuine surprise at his parents' displeasure with discovering the two of them, damp and in various states of undress, alone in his bathroom. He couldn't understand her complete disregard for every physical boundary and line of propriety that he had - wearing his clothes, eating his food, and dragging him around as if he was never moving fast enough for her. And for all the reasons he'd used through the years to explain her initially crude, eventually considerate, but always uninhibited behaviors toward him, only one, the one that holding her hand for the first time revealed to him, spoke to the simple truth: She liked him. She always had. Right from the start.

Despite his current state of bewilderment, he can't help smiling at the memories of her long-sublimated fondness for him, even when he could only manage exasperation with her. But then, she was far more tolerant, far more rational than he. Because years after their initial collision in the middle of a cornfield, from the moment she crash-landed back into his arms after having disappeared into the future for far too long, there was no stopping his need for and his pursuit of her. His oldest friend, his mother, and especially his artificial father - everyone knew. And as his eyes fell upon her face and every bit of him warmed with relief and exhilaration, he knew, too.

Lost in his ruminations, he reaches out to pick up his button-down from where she left it on the table, but stops when he feels the fabric shudder against his grasp. Startled, he peers down at his hand, and finds it unsteady. Gritting his teeth, he shakes his fingers and clenches his fist. Not again, he worries. Not when the only remedy he knows is shut behind a closed door and off-limits for the near future.

Ignoring the first and all-too familiar sign of whatever his body's been trying to tell him, he checks his watch, and realizes that he's been standing in front of the table for the past several minutes. Huffing, he raises his eyes to appeal to the ceiling for suggestions as to what he should do. Were they at work, he could simply ask her to meet him somewhere. Were she around right now, he wouldn't have to ask her anything at all. But neither is the case at present. And he can't interrupt something as private as her bath just because he'd rather be around her.

After grabbing his shirt, he checks his internal clock, and determines that he's still got a while before he has to be at the hotel. As he exits the kitchen and wanders into the living room, he takes a long look at the front door, figuring that he should just leave her a note about actually eating her vegetables, and take off. Maybe he could walk the streets a little. Maybe he could even take a flight though the city to let people see him. But without a doubt, his appearance would make the news and every social-networking site, and he'd have to answer to her for bending the rules of his day off. Besides, as great as the evening air may feel, it can't compete with the atmosphere of her apartment, the only space in the world filled to the brim with her.

Resolved to stay, he first peers over at her desk and notices the section of the newspaper that she saved for him from earlier in the day. But, thoroughly uninterested in adding the disappointment of another fruitless search to the present disappointment of being apart from her, he quickly dismisses the notion of scanning the classifieds, and focuses his gaze elsewhere.

Next, he glances at the couch and considers a nap. Failing reality, he could always spend some time with his unconscious's equivalent of her. But, turning his head and looking down the hall at her partially open door, he knows he'd prefer the genuine article, even if he can't be as close to her as he wants.

And then, it dawns on him: There's nothing wrong with splitting the difference. Just because he can't be near her doesn't mean that he has to stay as far away as her apartment will allow. Besides, he needs to put his shirt in a hamper for when he does their laundry tomorrow evening, and he'll have to change before he eventually leaves for his dinner, anyway. And both of those tasks can only be accomplished in one place.

Convinced of his logic, he heads down the hall and into her bedroom. Not wanting to make any noise, he lifts off of the carpet when he reaches the doorway, and drifts toward her laundry basket. As he raises the top, the dark blue from the two items in which he last saw her comes into his view. Recalling the sight of her figure - shapely, strong, and impossibly feminine - framed in scant material that still left more than enough to his active imagination, he takes his eyes from the hamper and turns them toward her bathroom.

Just underneath the door, flickers of candlelight glimmer, marking the boundary between a cold, dreary reality and a warm, vibrant fantasy. And from beyond that which he can see drift the soft sounds of rustling bubbles and rippling water.

Still gazing at the door, he makes his way toward her bed, situating himself above its middle, and quietly alighting upon it into a seated position. She's probably half-asleep, he muses, picturing her hair pinned up and her head resting against the back of the tub.

Determined to content himself with his current position as much as she's contented herself with hers, he swallows, lies back onto the bed, and closes his eyes. Finding himself all the more anxious, though, he readjusts a bit, stretching out a bit more and turning his head to the side. As he realizes that he's lying on her pillow, he instinctively breathes in her scent, and his mind soon wanders to their shared moments throughout the day:

Her hands tugging his arm as she pulled him out of her apartment after breakfast. Her legs draped across his lap as they ate lunchtime salads on an indoor bench. Her body nestled against his as she slept in the movie theatre.

Her taunting remarks, her playful laughter, her endless chatter.

That voice. Always that voice.

Feeling his heart begin to pick up its pace and his breaths growing more uneven, he blinks his eyes open and turns his head to face the ceiling. Lying in her bed, he realizes, may not have been the best of ideas, given how much more heavily her presence lingers in that place above any other. And positioning himself so close to and yet so far away from her may have been an even worse idea, as it's only exacerbating his frustration. If only he could bring himself to leave. If only he could keep his mind off of her.

He brings his hands to his face and sharply exhales. She wouldn't want him struggling like this. She's dropped what she was doing or rearranged her schedule too often over the course of the last couple months for him to think otherwise. On occasion, she's even put off her favorite pastime, fighting with their editor, just to spend a few minutes alone or on the phone with him.

And besides, he just wants to hear her - see her, if possible. There's nothing wrong with that. He doesn't have to stay and he doesn't have to invade her private time for very long. She won't mind, he tells himself. Or at least, she won't mind all that much.

Sitting up, he drops his hands from his face and lifts off of the bed. As he closes the distance between himself and the bathroom door, he considers his approach to getting past that barrier. He needs an actual reason for interrupting her, he concludes, or else he may run the risk of seeming inconsiderate.

As he lands on the carpet in front of the door, he clenches his teeth and thinks harder. First, he considers offering her a massage, but he quickly dismisses the idea when he realizes that he may sound indecent, given her present situation. Then, he considers offering to bring her her dinner, but he can't imagine warm food and warmer water being a pleasant mix, even for someone with an appetite like hers. Lastly, he considers telling her the simple truth - that he thinks he may be losing it again, and that, just like she's been encouraging him to do, he's trying to concede his defeat as early on as possible. But then, he's not certain as to whether he'd be rewarded for his preemption, or teased for even having to employ it. Probably both. Definitely both.

Content to improvise, he swallows, and then quietly clears his throat. She won't mind, he continues repeating in his head as he hesitantly raises his knuckles and prepares to knock.

"What is it, Smallville?" he hears her ask before he makes his move.

Taken off guard, he nearly bolts to the other side of the bedroom, fully prepared to deny that he's been standing outside the bathroom door for the past few minutes. Maybe she doesn't know how long he's been here, he tries to convince himself.

"Clark?"

"Um, y-yeah," he responds, instantly regretting the awkwardness in his tone.

"You're living dangerously, superhero. Whatever you want, just spit it out."

His mind goes blank, even with his pretexts, and he panics. Failing to think of something useful to say, he states the obvious: "I finished your dinner."

"Thanks. I'm sure it's great. Are you heading out?"

He curses himself, sensing that she's already trying to get rid of him again. Dejected, he leans his forehead onto the surface of the door, shut his eyes, and answers, "Yeah, I was gonna stick around for a bit, but I, uh… I figured I might as well go." Offhandedly, he adds, "Can I get you anything before I leave?"

He listens to her pause, and he holds his breath, preparing for a verbal assault of some kind. After another moment, he hears her begin, "Yes, actually," and his ears perk up and his eyes fly open. "Could you bring me a glass of ice water and some fruit?"

Beside himself with shock and anticipation, he quickly accedes, "Yeah. Sure. What kind?"

"Surprise me."

"Okay. I'll be right back," he replies, and then takes off.

Arriving in front of the refrigerator, he realizes how quickly he got there and berates himself for having been overeager. Ignoring his trembling fingers and grateful that he can't cut himself, he goes about slicing a couple different fruits into the larger chunks that she prefers, and placing them and a fork into a bowl. When he's finished, he grabs a cup from one of the cupboards, fills it with ice, and then grasps the water pitcher out of the refrigerator. As he begins to pour, he spills a little over the sides. "Calm down," he tells himself aloud, and tries again. More successful the second time, he covers the ice cubes, puts the pitcher away, and gathers the bowl from the counter.

Having arrived back outside her bathroom door, he lightly knocks on it.

"Come in."

He starts to reach for the doorknob, but hesitates. Clearing his throat, he asks, "Are you decent?"

"Are you kidding me?"

"No," he sighs, hoping that she's not going to start in on him for not having the same unblushing attitude that she and his mother share.

"You really are your fathers' son."

Suspecting what she's getting at, he replies, "Which one?"

"Plural. Not singular."

"Well, you know, either way -"

"- I meant it as a compliment."

"…Really?"

"Really."

"Oh."

"So are you coming in, or are you gonna make me get up?"

"You, uh… You never answered my question."

"I'm completely covered."

Having gotten her verification, he takes a fortifying breath, grasps the doorknob, and turns it.

Warm, heavy air sweeps across his skin as he crosses the boundary out of his chaos and into her idyll. Avoiding looking directly at her, he lets his eyes wander about, noticing the steam on the mirror, and the couple handfuls of large candles lining the surface of the sink.

"You're gonna let in a draft," he hears her tell him.

Mumbling an apology, he quickly spins around and closes the door. Turning back to face the direction of her voice, he trails his eyes along the floor, up the side of her spa-style bathtub, and across the surface of a sea of lush, voluminous bubbles, until he reaches her shoulders and her face. The sight of her damp skin, flushed and glowing from the heat of the water, sends of ripple of warmth through him, and he realizes that leaving is going to be even more of a struggle than he expected.

"Lemme guess," she taunts, breaking his reverie, "You're wondering how your homecoming present stacks up to Ollie's?"

His eyes still transfixed by the flickers of candlelight dancing across her skin, he swallows to relax his throat, and tries to sound composed. "I think that Oliver remodeling your bathroom was more of an apology for his, um…complicity in hiding my secret, and less of a 'welcome back' kinda thing."

"Either way, I've gotten way more mileage outta your Wii."

"Well, had I known that your new friend would end up riding shotgun for most of those miles, I may have gotten you something similar to this," he says, gesturing towards the deep-set, oversized tub. "Something more, uh…intimate."

Rather than respond, she lets his last word hang in the air as she continues watching him take her in. After several moments, she clears her throat to get his attention. "Smallville?"

"Hmm?" he answers, trailing his gaze over her hair, pinned in just the way he imagined.

"What did you bring me?"

"Oh, um…" he quietly exhales, realizing that he's been standing in one spot ever since he entered the bathroom. Finally animated, he takes a few swift strides toward her and holds out the bowl for her perusal. "Is this okay?"

Craning her neck to see over the side of the dish, she makes out a ripe mix of kiwis and bananas. "Good call."

He gives her an unsteady smile, happy to have succeeded in completing his task, but dejected to no longer have a reason for staying. After setting down the bowl on the broad ledge at the back of the tub, he offers her the cup of water. She takes the glass from his unsteady hand, and he feels her fingers graze across his. Watching her place the cup behind her and next to her fruit, he rubs his fingers together, trying to press away the tingling sensation left by her touch.

As she resettles underneath the blanket of bubbles, he takes one final glance at the painfully tempting curves of her neck and shoulders, before meeting her gaze just as her eyes find his. Unsure of how to make his exit, he continues looking at her, waiting for her to break their silence.

After a long pause, she puts him out of his misery, and offers, "Thanks again for dinner. And for the snack."

"My pleasure," he responds, wishing that every word out of his mouth didn't sound so laden with desire. Trying to smile through his discomfort, he adds, "Just, uh, you know, try to actually eat some of the broccoli. I know it's not your favorite vegetable, but it's still, um, you know…"

"Good for me."

"Yeah," he agrees, struggling to keep his eyes on hers. "Anyway, I know how you feel about your bath time, so I figure I'll just go hang out in the hotel lobby or something until it's time for the big sit-down."

"Okay."

"So, um… I'll just…"

"Go," she finishes.

"Yeah," he slowly concedes, trying to will his body to the other side of the door.

His breaths quicken as his anxiety increases. Trying to mask his nervousness, he lets out a slight chuckle, and then internally scolds himself for such an idiotic move. As a last-ditch effort, he kneels down onto the floor, telling himself that kissing her goodbye will be enough to placate him until he sees her again in a few hours. Avoiding her mouth, he leans toward her and softly presses his lips to her cheek. But the subtle fragrance of the water moistening her skin hits his senses, stopping him mid-motion as he starts to withdraw. He pauses a breath away from her as she turns her head to meet his gaze. Her unreadable expression brings him back to his immediate objective of leaving, and he stands up a little faster than intended.

"Can I get you anything else?"

"No, thanks."

"Okay. Well, enjoy your bath," he quietly says, more than a little disappointed to no longer be of use. Accepting his futility, he gives her a small smile, pulls his eyes away from hers, and turns around.

As he arrives at the door, he starts to reach for the knob, but pauses, and takes a moment to gather himself.

"You're afraid you're gonna rip the door off its hinges, aren't you?" he hears her giggle from behind him.

Too aggravated to pretend otherwise, he simply replies, "Yes."

"And what did the door ever do to you?"

"Nothing. I just…need a second."

"Tick tock, Smallville."

The amusement in her voice collapses what's left of his poise. Embarrassed and intent on cutting his losses, he reaches for the doorknob despite his instability. "I'm sorry. I was leaving," he apologizes over his shoulder.

"No, you weren't," she laughs, deciding to finally offer him a lifeline. "You were trying to find an excuse to stay."

He leans his head against the door, recognizing her mocking tone.

Asking the question that he so often puts to her, she wonders, "Do you even know what you're so upset about?"

"No," he groans, lying.

"Try again."

"Fine." Talking into the wooden surface, he confesses, "I missed you."

"Already?"

"I take it back. What I meant to say is that I hate you."

Still chuckling, she offers, "Hating me aside, would you mind keeping me company for a little while before you go? "

"No. I wouldn't."

"Then leave the defenseless object alone and come pick on someone your own size."

Relieved, he abandons his current position in search of the one he wanted to be in in the first place. Deciding that the floor probably isn't a very practical place to sit, he finds the stool underneath the sink, carries it to where he determines to be an appropriate distance from her, and sets it down. As he takes his seat, he suddenly notices the slight tension against the fabric of his pants. Clenching his jaw and hoping that it's not obvious, he shifts around into as comfortable a position as possible, rests his hands in his lap, and resolves to ignore his problem.

Tilting her head to the side, she studies the affected composure that he only adopts when he's in an aroused state that he feels is somehow ill-timed. Which, she muses to herself, tends to happen at some point just about every time they're alone. A passing glance, an inadvertent touch, a vaguely suggestive remark - that's sometimes all it takes to ignite both his body and his mind. But though she's come to understand why he fights it, she's never understood why he hides it. He can't help the potency of his virility any more than he can help anything else about him that's necessarily heightened and strengthened by the sun. Still though, that he tries to conceal it, that he thinks it's somehow impolite for him to respond to her as easily and as often as he does and, moreover, for her to know it, she finds both charming and amusing.

As she continues watching his useless attempt to deny what he's never been able to, she can't help imagining the various other ways she could mess with him for the time being. But, despite the temptation of having a little more fun with him, doing so is neither her wish nor her intent. After all, in spite of what she's sure his hesitancies must have been, he did manage to get himself into the bathroom, and that alone makes him deserving of no further torment - whether it be of her doing or of his own.

Careful to not disturb too many of the bubbles, she leans forward from her reclined position and glides through the water. Stopping at the edge of the tub closest to him, she gets right to her point and quietly asks, "Would you like to join me, Clark?"

His chest tightens and he forgets to breathe. After a second or two, he coughs out, "Excuse me?"

"Would you like to join me?" she repeats, slower and more pointedly than before.

Out of habit and out of his element, he tries to think of an appropriate reply. "It's nice of you to ask. But, uh, I have to go soon. So…"

"You didn't answer my question," she persists, refusing to let him talk himself out of her offer. "I asked if you'd like to. So is your answer a yes or a no?" She watches him swallow and she watches the wheels in his head turn as he tries to avoid a direct response. "I'll take that as a yes," she smiles. "Now, let's hear your excuses as to why not."

"They're not excuses," he lies. "It's just that I do have to be knocking on a penthouse door in -"- checking his watch - "- a little over half-an-hour."

"We both know that you're fast enough to dry off, change, and get to the hotel in under a minute. Next."

"…Won't I get the water dirty?"

"You're the cleanest person I know."

"That's, um… That's not what I meant."

"I know what you meant. And I don't think there's anything dirty about that."

Trying a more diplomatic tack, he reasons, "But I'm in your way as it is. I really don't wanna bother you any more than I already am."

She reaches a dripping hand through the space between them, and rests it on the clasp of his watch. "If you were bothering me, you never would've made it through the door." As she pulls the leather band from its buckles, she asks, "So what's really stopping you?" Having removed his watch, she sets it on a shelf just off to the side of the tub. Holding his gaze, she reaches into his lap and pulls one of his hands away from the other, and threads her fingers into his. Lighting tugging, she adds, "And don't say that you won't fit, because you could do laps in here if you wanted to."

He lets her pull him out of his seat and onto his knees just in front of the tub. As she reaches forward over the edge and grasps the bottom of his shirt, he admits, "I, uh… I'm not sure that I'd be comfortable."

"So we'll leave your boxers on," she simply replies, pulling his tee up his torso and over his head.

"But that's not fair to you."

"How do you know that? Maybe I'm wearing bikini bottoms."

"Are you?"

"Why don't you peek through the water and see for yourself?"

"Lois, c'mon, I'm just trying to -"

"- Respect my boundaries?"

"Is that so wrong?"

"Nope. And I wouldn't expect anything less from you. But do you really think that this is a line that I draw?"

"…I guess not."

"So would you prefer I just stand up and show you?"

"Lois, please…"

Giving him a generous smile, she backs off, and evenly answers his question: "I'm not wearing anything, Clark."

At the sound of her low tone and her simply reply, he instinctively swallows, and then clenches his jaw. After taking a moment to steady his voice, he asks, "So…that's not fair, right?"

"You are so adorable."

He watches her calm features as she drops his shirt onto the floor and begins working on his belt. Uncertain as to how he wound up in his current position, he tries to wrap his mind around things. One second, he was convinced she was either upset with him or tired of him. The next, he was forcing himself to believe that she wouldn't object to a brief intrusion. And now, she's in the middle of undressing him and gently persuading him to bathe with her.

All at once, he's forced to abandon his thoughts as he feels her finish undoing the button at the top of his pants.

"W-Wait," he says, peering down and covering her steady hands with his shaky ones.

Not giving his reserve the chance to take hold of him, she insists, "Clark?"

Grudgingly, he raises his head and finds her eyes.

"I always know."

"Lois -" he groans, his cheeks flushing as he drops his head.

"- Shut up, and look at me."

He sharply exhales, and searches the bath rug for help. Finding none, he bites his teeth, gathers himself, and finds her gaze once more.

"I always know," she tenderly reiterates, holding his eyes as she eases the slider of his zipper down over his partial rigidity. "I never mind. And I couldn't be more flattered."

After taking a moment to absorb her reassurances, he sighs, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"…I don't know."

"Well, while you're figuring it out," she smirks, pulling her hands away from him and settling into the middle of the tub, "finish taking off your pants, and get your ass in here."

He lets out a small, stilted chuckle, and then glances around the room as he tries to regain his bearings. In the tranquility of their surroundings, he considers how quickly and how completely the space he's in has transformed. What began the morning as a place of utility and necessity has, in the evening, become a place of leisure, of wonder. Every surface - the floor, the walls, the ceiling - smolders with soft, fiery hues. Every bit of the air holds a light, serene scent. He seems to have found himself in a world apart - somewhere beyond what's real and what he's never let himself imagine.

Taking a breath, he returns his gaze to her, the author of so extraordinary a universe, and watches her smile as he slowly continues what she began.

...


	10. Chapter 10

_[Rating: R - For occasional mild profanity, for suggestive language and dialogue, for sensuality, and for sexuality.]_

**CHAPTER 10**

After sliding his pants next to his discarded shirt, and then shifting around a bit as discreetly as possible to adjust himself inside of the mauve underwear that he had to go to another hemisphere to find, he studies the large area around her and wonders where he's supposed to go. When he doesn't receive a cue from her, he clenches his jaw, grasps the side of the tub, and carefully climbs over the edge. The fabric of his boxers soaks through as he sinks his lower body and most of his torso past the bubbles and down into the water. Studying her expression for any sign that he's doing something wrong, he watches her watch him as he sits down with his knees up and scoots back against the nearest wall.

While he settles in, she peers down at the quivering breaks in the water underneath the bubbles surrounding him. Gathering how new to him the position that she's lured him into is, and also gathering how that nervousness must be compounded by the near-panic in which she's sure he found himself before he worked up the nerve to knock on the door, she looks back up at him and offers a sympathetic smile. "Come here, Sweetie," she whispers, reaching through the water and grasping the backs of his broad, trembling calves.

"What did I do?" he asks, as he lets her pull him away from the wall and toward her.

"Why do you always think you're screwing up?"

"I don't."

"Liar."

She stretches his legs out on either side of her, and slides forward into the space between his thighs.

As she drapes her legs over his hips and extends them behind him, he worries about how close to him she plans on getting. "Um, Lois -"

"- Relax, Clark," she tells him, stopping a safe distance away from the source of his apprehension.

He looks down at the rolling swells of suds floating across and around her upper arms and chest, and wishes he could grant her request. But with his mind and body so keenly aware of the proximity of her entirely bare form, he's not sure that he can manage much beyond feigned composure. Just as he's begun to resign himself to his uneasiness, though, he feels her reaching for his hands, setting them on her knees, and sliding them up along her skin to the tops of her thighs. At the sensation of her against his fingers and palms, the tension in his body begins to give way. He watches her damp, foamy hands peeking out from beneath the surface, and he closes his eyes as she rests them on his face. Streams of water run down his cheeks and neck as she guides his mouth to hers, and gives him the kiss he's needed ever since she sent him away from her a short while ago.

He sighs and shudders at the first touch of her lips to his, and his remaining disquiet leaves his body. Slowly, she rubs and massages his mouth with hers in long, languid movements intended to soothe, not to excite. When she just barely grazes his lips with her teeth, he holds her thighs a little tighter. She accepts his unspoken permission, and angles her head to press her tongue to his. He whimpers, relishing the taste and texture that he spent most of his time in the kitchen thinking about. Feeling his body relax, she swirls her tongue further past his lips, subtly conveying that he's free to explore her if he's comfortable doing so. Emboldened by being able to touch what neither of them can see, he accepts her encouragement, and slides his hands to her hips and then up along her back, feeling the areas where her boyshorts and her bra previously were. As he lets out a soft sound of appreciation, she presses against his lips a few more times, before pulling away just enough to regard his face.

With his eyes still closed and his senses still immersed in their kiss, he hears her ask, "Better?"

Inhaling deeply and then exhaling slowly, he licks his lips and nods. "Mm-hmm."

"Good."

He opens his eyes as she takes her hands away from his face, and watches her blindly search around underneath the water.

"What are you doing?" he chuckles.

"It's here somewhere."

"What is?"

"Ah. Found it," she congratulates herself, producing a sopping gauze sponge from beneath the bubbles. He begins rubbing her back while she reaches over to a far ledge to grasp a bottle, squeezes a generous amount of liquid soap out of it and onto the sponge, and then sets it back down. "Now," she says, after working the soap into a lather, "make yourself useful."

Suspiciously, he looks down at the sponge she's holding out to him, and then back up at her.

"It's for me. Not for you," she explains.

Pleased with his latest task, he buoyantly replies, "Oh," and takes a hand from her back.

"Unless you'd rather watch me do it," she taunts, pulling the sponge out of his reach.

"What?"

She studies his face for a moment, watching him clench his teeth and blush, despite pretending to not understand her. Amused by his reaction and still thinking of the question he never meant to ask her, she cracks a broad smile, and giggles, "You're hopeless."

"You're relentless."

"Are you complaining?"

"How long are you gonna keep this up?"

Leaning forward, she rubs his nose with hers, and quips, "Indefinitely."

"I guess that's fair warning, at least," he retorts, taking the sponge from her.

She continues laughing at him, and all he can do is smile, shake his head, and wait for her to calm down. All around the room, her sounds echo off of the smooth granite and porcelain surfaces. Throughout the water, the flutters caused by her giggles gently sway his body. And across her skin, the flickers from the candlelight play, almost as if to share in her amusement. As he trails his fingers up and down her spine, he silently thanks whatever has allowed him to spend time in a place so alive with everything about her.

She watches as a serene expression settles across his features, and asks, "What?"

"Nothing, Lois," he quietly tells her.

Letting him have his moment, she begins scooping handfuls of suds and water onto his shoulders and back, wetting the parts of him that are still dry. When she's satisfied that he's damp enough, she checks, "Do you want a mud mask?"

"What? Why?"

"I don't know," she shrugs, pouring water onto the top of his head. "I just thought I'd ask."

Not wanting to disappoint her if she's keen on giving him yet another facial, he offers, "I'll have one if you're having one."

"I'm skipping it."

"Then do you mind if I pass, too?"

"Nope."

"Okay."

As he glances around her bare skin, wondering where he should begin with the sponge, he feels her running her fingers across his scalp and combing his hair out into spikes.

Hearing him begin to chuckle, she peers down at him, and asks, "What?"

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"What you're doing now."

"Because you're fun to play with," she simply responds, returning her attention to his style. "And because you let me."

"So I'm a toy?" he teases, running the drippy, soapy sponge along her arms and across her shoulders.

"My favorite toy."

Grinning at her reply, he asks, "Since when?"

"Hmm…" she considers. "I guess ever since you let me talk you to death about helping The Blur track down John Corben. You treated me like an actual friend after that." As she begins twirling locks of his hair into curls, she reminisces, "You'd call just to chat. Drop by the Talon to play cards and video games. Wait around after work so that we could grab dinner and a movie… It was a nice change."

"I may have just been trying to get up the nerve to ask you on a date," he jests, running the sponge to the back of her neck, taking care to not get her hair wet.

She laughs, "So your idea of courtship was eating way more than your share of the popcorn, wrestling me for the better Xbox controller, and fighting with me about the offensive line at Sharks games?"

"Yes, yes, and yes."

"Well, it was hard to catch your drift, seeing as you made every single one of our playdates, but could never manage to show up for our first date-date."

"I swear I had the worst luck," he groans, remembering his failed attempts. "Things would only ever come up when I was out on a limb with you."

After smoothing his hair straight back, she shifts closer to him and grasps his wrist. Pulling it around to the front of her neck, she slowly guides his hand and the sponge in it across the top of her chest. Lowering her voice, she continues their conversation so as to not overwhelm him. "Which, I gather, is why you decided to skip right to strong-arming me into coupledom?"

He glances up at her, and then down at his hand in hers. Swallowing, feeling his breath catch in his throat, he watches her ease the sponge through the bubbles and down into the water. "Well, um…" he trails off, trying to remember her question as she gradually circles around each of her breasts, letting him get a sense of their shape and dimension. "Dating you wasn't gonna tell me anything that I didn't already know. We, uh… We had plenty in common. We got along. And after that day in the copy room, I knew we wanted the same thing. So…" He abandons his train of thought as she slides the sponge from underneath his grasp, and lets it float away.

Watching his eyes fall closed, feeling his hand against her back hold onto her a little more securely, she splays his fingers across her ribs and brushes them along the underside of each of her ample curves. As she draws him down her stomach, she finishes his thought: "So you just cut the crap and got to the point?"

"It was, um… I-It was the Lane thing to do," he replies.

Licking her lips to keep herself steady, she asks, "You're saying we were never friends?"

His jaw trembles and his groin tenses as his hand crosses her navel, and descends lower. Bit by bit, she eases him along the smooth line that was previously covered by the upper hem of her underwear, and watches him hold his breath in anticipation.

Every thought flies out of his mind as she starts tracing his fingers across the edges of a silken vee of neatly trimmed hair. And he quietly gasps as he reaches the bottom taper, and meets the beginning of soft, bare skin.

"Were we friends?" she repeats, dragging him down the highest points of her inner thigh.

Unable to find his voice, he gives a slight nod.

His lips part as she slips one of her hands underneath his, widens her legs a little more, and then centers her hand against herself.

"Are we still friends, Clark?" she purrs, letting him feel her run up and then back down through her folds. When he doesn't respond, she poises herself against the source of her warmth, and softly asks, "Yes or no?"

He swallows, and then clenches his teeth, understanding her question. Barely loud enough for her to hear, he exhales, "Yes."

At the sound of his reply, he feels one of her fingers gradually disappear.

"Mmh…" she whimpers, dipping in as far as she can.

She watches the blush in his cheeks increase and his chest rise and fall a little faster upon hearing the desire in her voice. After a long moment, he feels her finger reappear as she slowly withdraws. Taking his hand and hers away from herself, she leans forward and presses a light kiss to his lips. He lifts his heavy lids, and finds her smiling at him.

Clearing his throat, he whispers, "What?"

"Nothing."

"C'mon. What?"

"Nothing," she smirks, holding his gaze and sliding out of the space between his legs.

He clenches his jaw and suppresses a moan as she slowly moves back along the hardened swell beneath his boxers. With his skin so acclimated to the temperature of the water, and having been too distracted by her to notice at the time, he only now realizes both the extent of his arousal and how close to him she actually was.

She giggles at his reaction and continues scooting farther away from him.

"That's not funny," he insists, glaring at her.

Feeling for his leg with her foot, she retorts, "It's a little funny."

"It's really not."

Still laughing, she slides up his inner thigh and inches underneath his boxers. "It's not little, or it's not funny?"

"Don't start."

"Maybe both?"

"Knock it off."

"Maybe neither?"

"Lois -"

"- Tell you what," she says, running up to his hip, steering clear of the point at which she knows he'll recoil, "Answer my question, and I'll leave you alone."

He glowers at her a little longer and a little harder, and runs his tongue over his teeth, contemplating his response. Taking a breath, he holds his ground, and simply replies, "Both."

"Bravo, Kent," she chuckles, nudging him with her toes before pulling her foot away. As he smiles, proud of himself for having met her challenge, she holds his gaze, lifts a hand from beneath the water, and crooks her pointer finger in her direction.

Gladly following her order, he moves away from the middle of the tub and toward her. When he gets close enough, she runs her hands up his arms and pushes against his shoulders, and he lets her turn him around between her legs. Draping her arms over his shoulders and across his chest, she lets the water buoy her as she gradually pulls him with her and reclines back against the side of the tub.

As he rests his head against the front of her shoulder and stretches out his legs, she kisses his temple, and murmurs against his skin, "Are you comfortable?"

"Mm-hmm," he responds, closing his eyes and relaxing further into her embrace.

She waits a little while, letting the water around them settle, and letting the quiet crackles of the bubbles and flickers of the candles fill the air. Eventually, she asks, "Do you remember that weekend before my zombie episode, when we were tossing around your football and you suggested a game of one-on-one?"

"I really had no idea that you couldn't play basketball."

Lifting a hand from his chest and threading her fingers into his damp hair, she edges, "Well, there's a big difference between being athletic, and being an athlete."

"You got a little better," he encourages, looking over his shoulder at her. "Even though it took you weeks to learn the basics."

"And despite all your hard work, I still suck," she smirks, running a hand across his submerged shoulder and down his arm.

"Yeah, you do."

As she hooks her legs around and on top of his thighs, she leans down to brush her lips against his neck, and points out, "I can dribble, though."

"With two hands," he counters, turning his head forward and closing his eyes again.

"I can make layups."

"Only half of the time."

"I can dunk."

"When I lift you."

"Don't kill my hoop dreams," she smirks, nipping at his cheek. "At the very least, I'm good at rebounding for you."

"That, you are," he concedes, moving his hands through the water and resting them on her legs.

As she trails her hand back up his arm and splays her fingers across his chest, she says, "My point is that I liked being your buddy."

"I like that you still are."

"Even though I give you facials and manicures?"

"I don't mind those," he smiles, feeling her trace odd shapes across his torso and scalp. "It's not like you've ever tried to put polish on me."

After letting out a soft laugh, she shifts around a bit, enjoying his size and weight against her. "You feel nice," she whispers, pressing several kisses to the side of his face. "You always feel nice."

At the sound of her tone and her sentiment, a ripple of warmth spreads through him and he sinks deeper into her. She draws his shield across his chest and gently strokes his hair, while beginning to quietly hum the notes of his favorite melody. Her soft body wrapped around him, the soothing caress of her hands, and the gentle lulls of her chest pressing against his back as she breathes coax him into a euphoric state. Tranquility befalls him and the rest of the world slips away, until nothing else exists but him and her, and the warm water surrounding them.

After a short while, the sensation of her lips on his entices him out of his trance. He opens his eyes and focuses on her, somewhat bemused, but not nearly enough to halt his pursuit of her mouth. A wide smile spreads across her face as he reaches for more of her taste.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing."

Accepting her reply, he angles his head farther back, and recaptures her lips. She reciprocates, running her hand up his neck to hold his cheek. As the water from her hand flows down her forearm and his neck, and back into the bubbly surface across his shoulders, he tries to deepen their kiss. But just as he starts to seek out her tongue, she pulls away from him, dotting her lips to his one final time.

Opening his eyes to watch her retreat, her worries, "What's wrong?"

"Why do you think something's wrong?" she chuckles, resting her head back against the edge of the tub.

"You stopped."

"Is that a crime?"

"No," he replies, trying to not sound as disappointed as he feels. "But why did you?"

"You are extremely chatty this evening."

"I wonder who I get that from," he retorts.

Smirking, she insists, "Fine. I'm not saying another word."

He tilts his head back even farther, and studies her face. "Well, I didn't mean for you to stop talking," he complains. When she only closes her eyes and ignores him in response, he nudges her leg with his hand. "Lois?"

She cracks open a lid to look down at him, and then promptly shuts it.

"Oh, c'mon," he groans, sitting up and onto his heels, and turning around to face her. "You know I can't take the silent treatment." As she crosses her arms over her chest, biting back a smile, he tries again, "Lois?… Lois?…"

He studies her defiant figure, considering his next approach. Reaching his hands through the water, he lightly sweeps his fingers down and then back up her sides, and watches her cheeks strain as she tries to keep herself from laughing. "Talk to me," he warns, with danger in his tone.

"Mm-mm," she hums, shaking her head.

At the sound of her response, he begins quickly brushing his fingertips across her waist and ribcage. The water around them splashes and rocks about as her eyes fly open and she recoils, choking back her giggles and trying to get away from him.

"Talk to me," he repeats, pursuing her up against the wall of the tub.

Biting her lips to keep them closed and unfolding her arms to push her hands against his chest, she shakes her head again.

"Please," he persists, increasing his pressure and speed as she jerks and twitches in response to his tickling. "Please, please, please."

Breathless, but still willful, she maintains, "Mm-mm."

As her cheeks turn bright red, and she tries to shove his arms away, he continues his playful, prickling assault on her torso. Despite his best efforts, though, he still fails to get her to make any sounds other than spastic, muffled giggles.

Finally relenting, he spreads his hands against her sides and holds them still, dampening her overexcited nerve endings. After a short while, the agitated water around them calms, her heaving chest returns to its normal pace, and she get outs her last few chuckles.

He regards her look of thorough self-satisfaction, and shakes his head. Thoughtfully exhaling, he runs through his remaining options, and, upon remembering an especially telling reaction of hers from earlier that afternoon, soon settles on one.

Lifting a hand from her waist, he slowly reaches toward the lower, front curve of her throat, and watches her expression change as she realizes his intention. Gently, he wipes away the sudsy water covering her skin, and feels her shudder in response. As he lowers his head, he checks her eyes to see if she's prepared to give in. When she still shows no sign of conceding, though, he traces his lips over the sensitive area, and listens to her sharp intake of breath.

She swallows as he presses his mouth to her, and half whimpers, "That's cheating."

Hearing her voice, he smiles against her neck, and then withdraws. "Don't be a sore loser," he teases, finding her gaze.

They exchange warm looks and a quiet moment, after which he lifts his hand to her cheek to sweep away a bit of foam that flew up onto her face as she thrashed about.

As he outlines her jaw with his fingertips, he tenderly reiterates his initial concern: "Did I do something wrong?"

"Of course not."

"Then why'd you stop?"

"…Why do you?"

He blinks once and then twice, as her subtle, though incisive, reply pierces his psyche. Sitting back further onto his heels, he lowers his hands down to her knees, studies her, and contemplates.

Once again, she's asked him a question that he hasn't asked himself, and done so in a manner coaxing, and yet insistent, enough to keep him from balking. How she manages to do that, to be so unbelievably and yet so effortlessly careful with him, he may never understand. Though, having been with her for so long, he has come to appreciate it.

If not for her emotional intelligence and for the implicit trust that she has in him, they may not have survived the long period during which he was too preoccupied or too complacent to share with her the truth behind his two relationships with her. It was a seeming contradiction - that for as open and demonstrative as she allowed both of him to be with her when it came to the things he was prepared to share, she allowed both of him to be just as closed-off and withholding when it came to all the things that he wasn't.

She never asked him why he was late, why he didn't show up, or why he disappeared sometimes. She never expected him to explain why his mind was, on occasion, somewhere else entirely.

She rationalized, dismissed, and disregarded.

She let him have his secrets, even though they both knew how much she needed and deserved the truth.

And now, months after they had the most important conversation they'd ever have, he's as grateful as ever that her sense of when to pull and when to push, when to be kind and when to be cruel is as keen as ever. Secure in the knowledge that she has all of him, she'll wait as long as it takes, he knows. And in the meantime, she has no intention of dialing down the brazenness and the sass to which he's always responded.

Those qualities, so essential to and so unshakeable about her, irritated him to no end for years and years, making him think, say, and do things that he never had with anyone else. And for as furious as those qualities still manage to get him, he's beginning to realize that they may also be unlocking, opening him up to responses of an entirely different sort - allowing him to shiver and to sweat, to feel the pleasure in pain, to reach and even to redefine his extraordinary limits.

But thus far, he silently admits, he has failed to fully embrace and to earnestly engage the truth to which years of trailing behind in her footsteps, crowding her, and provoking her, all while professing that he could only ever tolerate her at best, attested: He cannot resist her. He always has been and always will be impossibly, undeniably sparked by and drawn to her energy. And though he accepted that fundamental truth as she held his hand for the first time, and though he declared it to her on the night he told her everything, his body has been making it clear that simply knowing and acknowledging how he feels for her and what being with her does to him is not enough.

In defiance of his diffidence and his passivity, his baser self has begun disregarding his mind in the same manner that it did for years before they were together. Being at odds with himself and even with her didn't stop him from acting on his attraction to her after she kissed him with laced lips, from going after her despite being under the heady influence of another, or from reaching for her in the middle of a crowded dance floor. And now, after having gone so long compartmentalizing and suppressing his need for her out of respect for both her and himself, he's starting to grasp that being at odds with what he has only recently attained the complete freedom to pursue is amplifying his responses to her to excruciating degrees.

He has his reasons, he well knows. He has his very real concerns. But beyond the obvious, he now understands, lies nothing more than his inurement to a long-maintained status quo. And until he confronts his desires and knows them for what they are, his dithering and inaction will only cause him increasingly severe frustrations, as the irrepressible emotions driving his body continue to demand what his mind won't let him have.

From deep within his thoughts, he hears her whisper, "Where are you?"

Blinking his eyes and clearing his throat on his way back to their conversation, he refocuses on her, and says, "I'm right here."

"Where'd you go?"

"Nowhere."

"Your hands beg to differ," she smirks, pressing her hips forward just enough to let him feel how high his fingertips have drifted up her thighs.

Having not realized, he quickly lets her go, and apologizes, "I'm sorry."

"Are you really?"

He pauses, and takes his eyes away from her, knowing himself to have arrived before the same threshold that he's been stopping short of all day. When he remains silent several moments longer, he sees her begin to shift around, and he looks up to find her abandoning their exchange and setting her sights on the snack behind her. Clenching his teeth to steady himself, he reaches out of the water and stops her arm with his dripping hand. As she turns back to him, he takes a breath and finds her gaze.

"…I'm not sorry."

"Neither am I."

At the sound of her quiet reply, he pulls his other hand up past the suds, and cradles her cheeks in his palms. Holding her eyes, he looks past his initial anxieties, and lets his longings shine through.

His perfect recollections of her from throughout their day kindle his body and his mind. The flutters deep in her stomach as his tongue met hers. Her uneven breaths as he pressed his lips behind her ear. His name gently exhaled from her mouth as he rocked between her thighs. All only mere glimmers, mere promises of what smolders beneath her surface.

His chest fills with his long-deferred hopes of setting her alight. Of feeling her course, teem, and writhe with the magnitude of his adoration. Of testifying to what she always has and always will mean to him.

Glowing with desire and ignited with purpose, he leans down and watches her eyes fall closed as he touches his mouth to hers. He feels her subtly exhale, relaxing her body, and giving herself over to his initiative. Resting her hands on his forearms, she rubs his soaking skin with her thumbs as he shifts closer to her and kisses her more firmly. Her pliant lips follow his lead, absorbing his attentions. She sighs into his mouth when she feels his hands running down and back around her neck. Lost in his engrossing sensations, she fails to register his appeal, whispered against her lips.

He tries to slip away and repeat himself, but she pursues him. Indulging her, he eases his mouth open and glides his tongue across hers. After several moments longer, he begins his retreat once more, but to no avail. Taking a different approach, he runs his hands back around and up to the sides of her face. Cupping her cheeks, he keeps her from moving forward as he withdraws from their kiss.

She whimpers at the loss of contact and tries to recapture his lips, but he resists. Opening her eyes, she frowns in disappointment, and asks, "What?"

"Take your hair down."

Without hesitation, she releases his arms, and reaches into her dark coif. He watches as she pulls two long pins from behind her, and her tresses, slightly damp here and there, fall down around her face. Offering her a soft smile, he slides a hand across the base of her scalp, and leans back down to her.

"Thank you," he whispers, before pressing against her lips once more.

She drops the pins over the side of the tub, and they land on the floor in quiet clinks. Eagerly accepting his kiss, she reaches up to rest her hands on the back of his neck. Understanding her need for more of him, he lowers a hand into the water and wraps his arm around her back. And she mewls in appreciation as he lifts her up onto his lap in one smooth movement.

The water around their still-submerged waists sways back and forth, before eventually settling. Pieces of her hair fall down onto his wet shoulders as she wraps her arms and legs around him. He kisses her more deeply, and she holds him tighter, mashing away the suds between them. Her muffled sounds resonating against his lips and her breasts pressing into his chest warm and stir his body. Feeling himself grow, he maintains his focus on her, and lets his arousal come. She adjusts her position across his lap, giving him room to swell within the space of his boxers, and he promptly reaches his peak.

As he massages her tongue with his in long, fluid strokes, he senses her rising temperature. When she arches into him, pressing against his lap, he unthreads his hand from her hair, and runs it down the curve of her back and into the water. Circling both of his arms around her, he pulls her closer.

"Mmh…" she whimpers, feeling his length pressed against her and along her lower stomach.

Instinctively, she rolls her hips up and then back down, and he moans against her lips. With her fingers laced into his wet hair and her lips moving slowly, sumptuously against his, he basks in the exhilarating force heating his skin and surging through his body. Having reconciled his rational mind to his emotional desires, he feels no hint of the panic that has beset him to varying degrees over the past few months. Tingling all over with intent, rather than doubt, with vibrancy, rather than frenzy, he recalls her rant from earlier. As it's turned out, her insights were exactly right - yet again. From deep inside, he smiles, wondering why he ever lets his obstinacy draw him into her bizarre deliveries and bad timing, when her meanings couldn't be clearer or more correct, and when she's only ever just talking to him in a language that she thinks won't embarrass him.

His inner smile manifests across his lips, and she returns it without needing a reason. Releasing her back, he runs his hands around her waist and drifts down to her hips. She alters her angle and swirls her tongue into his mouth, while he rubs her thighs.

Soon though, an unexpected taste makes its way across his palate. Dismissing it, he slides his hands underneath her and grasps her legs, as visions of resting her on the back ledge of the tub and slowly kissing his way down her body fill his head. But just as he starts to lift her, he hears her say something incomprehensible against his lips.

"Hmm?" he absently asks.

"Wake up, Smallville…"

Jarred as much by her coaxing statement as by her use of the endearment he's never heard her utter when in the midst of their desire, he opens his eyes, watching one world vanish, and then squeezes them closed as he passes through an ethereal haze, and another world swiftly reappears.

The sensation of her lips on his lures him back to his present circumstance, and he blinks open his eyes to find her peering down at him from over his shoulder, with amusement clearly evident on her face.

"Welcome back," she smirks, tickled by how deep of a kiss it took to bring him back.

Quickly, he takes in her appearance, and finds her hair still swept up off of her face. From his reclined position, he turns away from her and looks down the rest of the tub, where translucent water peeks through in the few patches where the bubbles have disappeared. He runs his tongue around in his mouth, identifying the tastes of kiwi and banana, and then checks his internal clock, realizing that several minutes have passed since he last heard her humming a refrain in his ear.

As she wraps her arms around his chest and hugs him, he leans his head back against her shoulder and lifts his hands from underneath the water. Covering his face, he slowly muffles, "I am so sorry."

"For what? Mr. My-Solar-Battery-Is-Fully-Charged was so relaxed that he fell asleep on me. I think that's cute." Pressing her lips to his neck, she adds, "Though, it usually only takes a peck to wake you up. What was going on in there that was so much better than out here?"

Groaning, he shakes his head and sinks deeper into the water.

"Really?" she giggles. "I thought you were keeping it PG."

He quickly sits up out of her embrace and onto his knees, and turns around to face her. Rambling an explanation, he says, "I am. I do. I just didn't realize. I thought… I thought we were still here. I have never. I would never. Especially when we haven't. Not that I would anyway. Because regardless -"

"- Slow down, cowboy. It was just a dream," she smiles, reaching through the water to rest her hands on his hips. Feeling the fabric of his boxers stretching out and away from him, she chuckles, "A pretty good dream, apparently."

"Oh, god," he quietly exclaims. Having not realized the lingering evidence of his unconscious tryst, he quickly sits back onto his heels, presses his hands against himself, and hangs his head. After listening to her soft laughter for several humiliating moments and berating himself the entire time, he sighs, "This is horrible."

"Calm down," she teases, poking his knee with her toes. "I've rounded a couple of bases with you thanks to the sandman. No harm, no foul."

With his eyes squeezed shut and still shaking his head, he admits, "It's not the same, Lois. I don't dream like you. My dreams are…vivid. They're like reality."

"Because of your highly-evolved brain, or because of the sun?"

"Both," he replies. Taking the opportunity to focus on something other than the problem against his hands, he details, "A human mind takes bits and pieces from reality and rearranges them to give the illusion of newness in dreams. But my waking life directly translates into my dreaming life. People, places, things - it's all pretty much the same. Even you."

Suppressing how funny she finds his reaction to be, but still too tempted by the question in her head, she asks, "Well, Clark, if stuff directly translates, then how far did we get? Because there are definitely things about me that you don't…know."

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to find her eyes. "Not far," he tells her, holding her gaze. "And even if we had gotten to a certain point, something would've happened to interrupt things. So, technically, even if I wanted to, which I don't, I couldn't. And I never would, because that'd be like cheating on you - with you."

Hearing his all-too chivalrous assurance, she regards him with a warm smile. Scooting toward him, she rests her hands on his shoulders, and runs them along his arms and down through the water. "So what do we do when you're off in your other world?"

"PG stuff, I swear." Swallowing, he feels her grasp his wrists and gently tug. After a moment, he lets her pull his hands away from his retreating arousal. "We, um… We hang out. We go to work. Sometimes, we redo stuff that we've done before. Like that big fight we had about Sacks."

"You lost me. I thought everything happens in the present."

"Most of the time, everything does. And that's when I actually have agency. But every now and then, I relive events from my past exactly as they happened. And other times, I kind of experience the future."

His final statement stops her in the middle of reaching for her half-eaten mix of fruit. Turning back toward him, she asks, "You can see the future?"

"No, I can't," he tells her, grabbing her bowl and handing it to her. "But my sixth sense picks up on things that I don't necessarily grasp on a conscious level while I'm awake. So sometimes, particularly meaningful stuff that I get from real people or real situations will form a kind of what-if type of scenario while I'm sleeping. And almost always, some major aspect of that scenario will eventually play out in reality. It's kind of like an early-warning system, I guess. But half of the time, it's just small stuff, like Jimmy getting a cold."

Spearing a chunk of kiwi with her fork, she holds it up to his mouth. "Gimme a for instance of something big."

As he pulls the fruit from the cool prongs, he considers an example. When he's finished chewing, he offers, "Lex being alive."

"Wow," she responds, impressed. "Had I known you've got an inside track on these things, I would've made you watch the races leading up to the Belmont Stakes. We could've raked it in if you picked a long shot as the winner."

He chuckles at her teasing remark, and accepts the bite of banana that she holds out for him. Relaxing, he sits up off of his heels and back down onto the floor of the tub, stretching his legs out underneath hers.

"So, Senor Soothsayer," she smirks, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his lips, "have you ever seen my future?"

He smiles to himself and finds her waist with his hands. "Actually, I may have. Once. Maybe twice. I'm not really sure."

"Well, c'mon, I demand details."

"I'm not always right, Lois. Besides, there's always a lot of filler in those dreams."

"I still wanna know."

"Okay," he concedes, already grinning at her impending denial. "How often do you get your eyes checked?"

Regarding him with suspicion, she slowly replies, "A couple times a year. Why?"

"Let's just say that I may not always be the only four-eyes in this relationship."

He watches her withdraw the next bite that she was on her way to feeding him, and he lightly laughs as her face contorts into an expression of indignation.

"No. No way. Never in a million years," she insists. "I have perfect vision. My mom did. Lucy does. And The General, at 57, still does. And anyway, even if I didn't see things clearly, I would never resort to glasses. It'd either be contacts, or me running into walls."

"Oh, I don't know," he says, lifting a hand to grasp her forearm, and guiding the forkful to his mouth. "I've seen you in my glasses. I think you look nice."

Smiling, she rethinks her stance, and asks, "How nice?"

"Very."

At the sound of his simple reply and what she heard as a subtle request, she warms with delight. After shifting around in place to contain her excitement, she presses on, "And what else did you see in your crystal ball?"

Remembering the image that her kiss pulled him away from that morning, he takes a long moment before quietly explaining, "It was, um… I'm pretty sure it was just filler. Wish fulfillment, probably."

"Well, tell me what it was," she persists, intrigued by his reticence. "I'm no fairy godmother, but I may have a little bibbidi-bobbidi-booup my sleeves."

He smiles at her constant eagerness to indulge even his slightest whims, and leans forward to brush his lips across her cheek.

Taking the meaning of his gesture, she pouts, "You're not gonna tell me, are you?"

"It's not something I can ask for," he whispers against her skin. "But I'll let you know if it ever happens."

"Fair enough."

Pulling away from her cheek, he glances down to see the mostly-empty bowl in her hand. After pausing to consider, he grasps the dish and the fork from her, and sets them on the side of the tub. She watches his movements with curiosity, and her eyebrows perk up in surprise as he wraps his arms around her back and pulls her to him. As his lips softly fall on hers, she chuckles for a moment, but soon settles into his kiss. Letting him guide her, she drapes her arms over his shoulders, enjoying the feeling of him pressed to her chest and between her legs. After a few long minutes of relishing his tenderness, she wriggles around a bit against his boxers, taking advantage of his proximity and getting a clear sense of his dimensions when at ease. Retaliating, he pulls his arms from around her and brushes the backs of his fingers down her sides.

"Knock it off," she giggles, smiling against his lips. "You know that I'm ticklish."

"I know that you're sensitive."

Struck by his wording, she moves her mouth out of his reach. "Oh, really?"

Deeply and teasingly, he chuckles at her, and lightly runs his lips back across and down her cheek. As he arrives at the underside of her jaw, just where the upper curve of her throat begins, he reaches a hand around her. "Do you deny it?" he asks, circling his fingertips into her lower back and pressing a soft, moist kiss to her neck.

Drawing in a hissing breath and reflexively arching into him, she tenses all over as an unmistakable sensation hastens to her core. When he repeats his ministrations with more insistence than before, she swallows, and nervously shudders, "Are you flirting with me?"

"Something like that."

Closing her eyes, she reminds, "You're not dreaming, Clark."

In response, he splays his hand against her back, and tilts his head up just enough to whisper in her ear, "Neither are you, Lois."

The warmth of his reply fills the heavy air around them. Doubting, she threads her fingers into his hair, and guides him away from the side of her face. Upon finding his gaze, she studies him, running her eyes over an expression that she's never seen from him before. "What are you doing?" she quietly and earnestly asks.

Maintaining his perfectly calm and entirely resolute visage, he runs his hands up and down her back, letting her question go without a spoken response.

Seeing and feeling his answer, she offers him a kind smile and trails her hands down to his chest. Then, leaning back in his embrace, she takes a deep breath, and says, "It's time for you to go."

Having all but forgotten his engagement, he shuts his eyes and slightly shakes his head as the world beyond her arms and her candlelit bathroom returns to his consciousness. Finally managing to look at her again, he sighs, wondering if she's still unsure of him, and if that skepticism is what prompted her reintroduction of reality. But, tentative about how best to reassure her, he tables his concern and keeps his attention on his promise.

Exhaling an exaggerated, sulking groan, he slumps his shoulders and tries to appear sympathetic. "Come with me?"

She chuckles at his feeble attempt, and simply replies, "Not this time."

"Fine," he grumbles, pretending anger. After dotting a few kisses to her brow, he offers, "Thank you for letting me sit with you."

"Any time," she grins, scooting away from him.

He reluctantly lets her go, and then stands up out of the water. But as he reaches for one of the towels hanging on a nearby rack, he sees her slightly tilting her head to the side out of the corner of his eye. Turning back to her, he watches her watch the water and suds cascading down his torso. Ensnared by her gaze, he holds still as her eyes descend farther, taking in the bulk and strength of his thighs, before trailing back up just enough to linger over the soaked fabric clinging to every contour that it conceals. Feeling his body start to react to her warm, appreciative stare, all he can do is clench his jaw, and lament how unforgiving his only bit of clothing is.

Witnessing him stir before her eyes, she takes a deep breath, and then slowly licks her lips.

Her tone dark, she quietly asks, "Do you always dress to the right?"

"What?"

"Never mind." After a few more moments, she finally relents, peering back up at him, and, at her normal volume, sweetly suggesting, "You should shower."

Having been released from her scrutiny, he quickly grabs a towel, wraps it around himself, and steps out onto the rug. "I, uh, I don't wanna be late," he uneasily replies.

"I think he'd get over a five-minute delay."

"Probably. But I'd rather be on time. Get off on the right foot, you know," he rattles off, bending down to gather his clothes.

"Have it your way," she smirks, struggling to keep herself from giggling at him. "But he was with me when I bought the bubble bath, the soaps, and the salts. So, given how much of a detective he is, he's definitely gonna realize why you smell like the same lavender and vanilla that I made him give me an opinion on. And you know he'll probably tease you about it."

He huffs, looking at her, then the door, and then the shower stall in the corner. Unable to argue with her logic, and naturally averse to the notion of any and all mention of his private activities with her from anyone but her, he finds her gaze and silently asks the obvious question.

"I won't peek," she insists, as her chuckles finally bubble to the surface.

At the sound of her laughter, he cocks his head and narrows his eyes at her.

"What? I'm serious." To demonstrate her assurance, she glides through the water to the other end of the tub, facing away from the shower. "Scout's honor," she promises.

Taking her at her word, he sets his pants and shirt down on the stool, and walks toward the corner. But he stops when he hears her begin to make a comment.

"- Not now," he warns.

"I'm just saying that it's not like you've got much more to hide."

"Do you ever listen to me?"

"Of course, 'much' is a relative term."

"Do you ever even hear me?"

"And in your case, it's more like -"

"- Lois!"

She draws back, startled, as he suddenly appears directly in front of her face, leaning over the edge of the tub, and looking her right in the eye. After blinking a few times to refocus on his nearness, she squeaks out, "Hi."

"Hello," he quietly replies, satisfied with her reaction.

Trapped between him and the back of the tub, she swallows, and then coyly asks, "You were saying?"

"I adore you."

"Okay," she giddily smiles, having no other reply to his unexpected sentiment.

"Every little thing about you."

"Okay."

"Including your silliness, and your stubbornness, and the fact that, sometimes, you just can't help yourself."

"Okay."

"And that is exactly my problem. Because I haven't yet figured out how I'm gonna force myself out of this room and away from all those wonderful things, not the least of which is how stunning you look right now."

"Okay."

"So, Lois, do you think you could do me the huge favor of helping yourself for the next few minutes, so that leaving you doesn't get any harder for me than it already is?"

"…Okay."

"Thank you."

She beams as he dots his lips to her temple, and then withdraws from her line-of-sight and heads off to the shower. Taking a breath, she sinks down into the water, submerging herself up to her neck. With her head resting against the ledge, she closes her eyes and listens to the sounds of him washing away the scent of her bathwater, and replacing it with the scents of his liquid soap and shampoo. When he emerges a short while later with a towel wrapped around his hips, she watches him grab his watch from the shelf, gather his clothes off of the stool, and push the seat back under the sink. And she grins as he then approaches her, and rewards her restraint by pressing a kiss into the top of her hair.

Following him to the door, she sees him pause to gather his resolve, and then grasp the knob, turn it, and crack open the exit leading out of her glittering world.

Just a few seconds later, after he's closed the bathroom door behind him, she hears a knock on it.

"Come in."

He reemerges, completely dry, thoroughly groomed, and impeccably attired in one of her favorites of the outfits they got for him.

"What do you think?" he asks, turning around so that she can see him.

She glances over his black slacks, charcoal-gray cardigan, and true-gray dress shirt.

"Very nice," she tells him. After seeing him smile at the sound of her approval, she glances down at the long, slender piece of fabric hanging over the coat in his hand. "Did you decide against the tie?"

"No. I like it," he quickly replies. "But you said something earlier about me using a different kind of knot, and, well, I only know the one you taught me, so…"

She chuckles and sits up, and then moves to the side of the tub closest to him. "Come here."

After grabbing another towel from the rack and leaving his coat in its place, he hands the plush cloth to her as he kneels down onto a dry spot on the rug.

Wiping the water from her hands and forearms, she explains, "I taught you a four-in-hand. But you need a bigger, more symmetrical knot now."

He follows her movements as she rests the towel on the side of the tub, turns up his collar, and takes the tie from his hand. As she rests the tie around his neck and focuses on adjusting the length of the opposite ends, he abandons his lesson and runs his eyes over her face. Having spent the last several minutes lost in thought, he steadies himself, and broaches the subject that's been on his mind.

"Will you be awake when I get back?" he gently asks.

"Last I checked, you're the only one here who has a bedtime that begins with a single digit."

He chuckles, "So yes?"

"Yes."

"Well, um," he begins, clearing his throat, "I was hoping that maybe you'd let me pamper you a bit, as a thank you for today. There's this little chocolatier in Singapore. I used to bring Chloe their ground coffee, and she always swore by the place."

"I remember the bags in the Talon apartment. She always told me she had that stuff shipped to her. But I guess you're faster than UPS, huh?" she teases, peering up at him for a moment before returning to looping his tie.

"I guess," he smiles. "Uh, anyway, I was thinking that I could swing by there and grab a bunch of things. We could have a fruits, chocolates, and red wine picnic in the living room. I could give you a massage. I could even read some of that novel that you've been trying to get through to you."

"You want me to play the wispy heroine to your soaring romantic hero?"

"Something like that. But without the wispiness."

"That sounds really nice."

Identifying her placating tone, he sighs, "But…?"

"But I'm not done spoiling you."

"…Oh."

"What is it?" she asks, tightening his knot and turning down his collar.

He clenches his teeth, pondering. As she starts to tuck the bottom of his tie into his cardigan, he stops her hands with his, and holds them to him. After she finds his eyes, he quietly tells her, "I've been thinking about what you were saying earlier. About me being a bad Jedi. And about my, uh…my panic attacks."

Sensing his gravity, she flattens a hand against his chest and rests the other on the side of his face. "Okay," she replies, giving him her full attention.

Holding both of her wrists, he says, "I think that… I think that I haven't fully committed myself to this. And I think that that's probably why I get so overwhelmed in the midst of things. But I just… I need you to know that the reasons why don't have anything to do with…single-mindedness."

She offers him a small smile, acknowledging his meaning and giving him his cue to continue.

Happy with her response, he coddles her gaze with his and brushes her skin with his thumbs. And after waiting a few quiet moments, he whispers his essential sentiment: "The how doesn't matter to me, Lois… You do."

Her smile reaches full bloom as she absorbs his reassurance as much as his resolution. Heartened, she takes a deep breath and returns to arranging his clothes.

He lets her slide her hands away from him and finish slipping his tie down his sweater. Glad to have reaffirmed his feelings from that morning and to have cleared the air about the things that have happened since, he glows with relief and elation, and contently watches as she finishes fussing with his appearance.

After smoothing out the front of his ensemble, she taps his knot with a finger, and specifies, "Half-Windsor."

"Got it."

Looking him over a final time, she gently touches the hair swept over his brow, and fiddles with an imaginary piece of lint on his shoulder. Masking her displeasure with his departure in humor, she tells him, "Now, remember: Just because he's treating you to a high-end meal doesn't mean that you're obligated to put out."

Chuckling, and shaking his head, he replies, "I'll keep that in mind." He starts to get up, but feels her hands on his shoulders, keeping him in place. "Yes?"

"You look really handsome."

"Thank you."

"I mean, not too handsome, of course. Not conspicuous-handsome."

"That's good."

"Just handsome to me, because I dig the nerd thing."

"I'm glad."

"Which isn't to say that you look less handsome as anything else."

"Okay."

"Because you know how much I like your suit."

"I do."

"And even the stuff that you wear around the farm."

"Lois -"

"- And around my apartment, for that matter."

Grasping and rubbing her damp upper arms, he gently asks, "Lois?"

"Yes?"

"Are you sure you don't wanna come with me?"

"…Yeah."

"My loss," he tells her, leaning forward to kiss her forehead.

She closes her eyes to soak in the brief contact, and sighs when he pulls away. After reminding herself of the numerous reasons for getting him to go, she moves past her disappointment, and teases, "Are you wearing another pair of new boxers?"

"That's my cue," he retorts, starting to get up again.

Reaching for his waist and pulling him back down, she insists, "C'mon, lemme see."

"No."

"But I wanna see."

"No."

"Pretty please."

"This is the exact opposite of helping yourself, Lane."

"Fine," she sulks, releasing his hips, and returning to her reclined position against the back of the tub.

Smiling at her petulance, he rises, and then leans down to whisper something in her ear.

Upon hearing the name of her favorite color, she grins, "Really?"

"Really," he replies, kissing her lips a final time, and then standing straight up. "Do you need anything else? Magazine, music, more food?"

"No, thanks," she says, closing her eyes. "Just be sure to give my boyfriend my regards."

Chuckling, he leaves her side, grabs and slips on his coat, and heads toward the door. After stepping into her bedroom, he turns back and leans his head against the doorjamb, taking one last look at her.

Feeling the warmth of his gaze, she smirks, "Goodbye, Smallville."

"Goodbye, Sweetheart," he replies, before finally closing the door, slipping on his glasses, and taking off.

_..._


	11. Chapter 11

_[Rating: PG-13 - For occasional mild profanity, and for suggestive dialogue.]_

**CHAPTER 11**

A distinctive scent greets him as he arrives back outside her apartment door. Smiling, he sets down the four large bags in one of his hands, and then digs around in his front pocket. When he's found his keys, he unlocks and cracks open the door. As rich, sweet notes drift through the sliver in the entryway, his smile stretches into a full grin, and his palate stirs in anticipation. After placing the keys back in his pocket, he takes a brief moment to smooth out his sweater and re-straighten his tie, and to readjust the bouquet in his still-occupied hand. Satisfied that he looks as presentable as when he last saw her, he picks up his bags, and nudges the heavy door all the way open.

"Lois? I'm back," he calls out, announcing himself as he steps into the apartment.

Having expected to find her on the sofa, surrounded by food and attempting to beat his high score on her favorite video game, he can only sigh in disappointment as he arrives in her empty living room, dark in every place except for where the light from the building's hallway streams in.

After flipping on the switch near the entrance, he shoulders the door closed and then locks it. "Lois?" he tries again.

Upon receiving no answer, he supposes that maybe she fell asleep after all. Leaving his bags near the back of the couch, he quickly peers into the dim kitchen, hoping to locate the source of the aroma lingering in the air, but discovers nothing remarkable in plain sight. Abandoning his brief distraction, he quietly makes his way down the hall. When he reaches the half-open door to her dim bedroom, he lightly knocks on it, and then peeks his head just inside.

"Lois?" he whispers, hoping to not disturb her if she's sleeping.

The moonlight flowing in through her window casts an azure glow over what he realizes is yet another empty space. Sighing again, he walks over to her bedside table and turns on the lamp. Not bothering to search the dark area beyond the entrance to her bathroom, he calls out her name one more time, and isn't surprised when the only things that respond to him are the stillness of his immediate surroundings, and the faraway, ambient clamor of the city.

His shoulders slumped in defeat, he plops down on the edge of her bed and starts to rest the flowers on her sleeping pillow, but finds it missing. More interested in the whereabouts of its owner, though, he dismisses the disappearance, and sets the flowers alongside him. Frustrated, he rubs his temples and groans. Things are not going to plan, he silently regrets. He was supposed to greet her, insist that she needs to be pampered far more than he needs to be spoiled, shuffle her off to her bedroom, and then set up for their picnic. In his exasperation, he glances sidelong at her nightstand drawer, which he's certain is mocking him for not considering the possibility of his present circumstance. After all, he well knows that she never stays in one place for very long - not unless he asks her to.

Shaking his head, he forces his gaze away from that which is, to his endless bewilderment, forbidden, and he forces his mind away from thoughts that will only discourage him. He's certain that he well enough articulated to her his feelings before he left, and he's certain that she was pleased to hear them reiterated. So, he tells himself, he shouldn't read anything into her absence.

Having gathered himself, he stands, picks up the bouquet, and heads out of her bedroom. After finding an unused vase in the kitchen panty, filling it with water, and placing the flowers inside of it, he carries the arrangement into the living room, and sets it down on an end table at the edge of the sofa, where it's sure to be the first thing she sees when she returns.

Making himself at home, he takes off his coat and drapes it over the back of the couch. Then, turning his attentions to his other preparations, he finds his bags and places them on the coffee table. But just as he starts to unload things, he realizes that there's no way of knowing for certain when she'll be back. For that matter, there's no way of knowing whether she'll be back at all.

At the prospect of spending the night without her, he quickly reaches into his back pocket and grabs his phone. His anxiety only increases as he holds down the first digit of his speed-dial, and wonders if she's answering, or if her phone is even on. As he brings his cell to his ear and listens to the first ring, he shakes his head at himself. Though she enjoys making fun of him for constantly being continents away from where she thinks he is, the irony is that he loses track of her even more often. As his lips begin to quirk into a smile at the thought of her unpredictability, the sound of her voice interrupts his reflections.

"_Well it's about damn time."_

He chuckles, both relieved that she picked up and amused by her standard greeting. "Would it kill you to just say hello for once?"

"_Would it kill you to keep your manners to yourself for once?"_

"Since when is it a crime to show common courtesy?"

"_How long have we been together?"_

"One year, two months, fifteen days, nine hours, and -"

"_- Let me stop you right there, dork. Because my point is that seeing as we knew each other for so long before you mauled and strong-armed me into this relationship, we passed the polite mark somewhere around the first week."_

"I don't think you were ever polite to me. Not even for seven days."

"_Is that why you called? To nag me for not attending whatever finishing school the chicks you grew up with went to?"_

"You know that's not what I -"

"_- Because if so, then I've got 1960 on the other line for you. And it wants its gender politics back."_

"Have you ever considered doing stand-up? That mouth of yours could use the free rein."

"_You been thinking about my mouth, Clark?"_

The low, provocative tone of her reply sends a strong enough tremor through him to silence any rejoinder he could offer. Having conceded their spar by virtue of his hesitation, he quietly laughs at himself and lets her have the next word.

"_Are you back from your date?"_

"I am," he replies, gathering himself and bending down to rummage through one of the bags. "And I'm currently standing in the middle of your empty apartment. Where'd you run off to?"

"_How'd things go?"_

Her avoidance of his question strikes him, and he grows suspicious. "Lemme guess: You're boarding a plane to some undisclosed location for the sake of whatever story you think is gonna one-up my probe into the governor's office? Which it won't, by the way. -"

"_How did things go?"_

"- Or, you had a hankering for something crappy, and you're at a fast food restaurant. -"

"_You're pushing it, Smallville."_

"- Or, you just thought it'd be funny to leave me here by myself."

"_Answer my question, or I'm hanging up."_

Backing off, he sighs, and then admits, "They went about how you expected."

"_I knew it! You two were totally made for each other."_

"You trying to get rid of me?"

"_Not any time soon."_

Laughing, he unloads a bottle of wine and a carton of mixed berries, and takes them with him into the kitchen.

"_So what did you boys do?"_

"Drinks, dinner, cards." Clearing his throat, he pauses, and then adds, "But, uh, it wasn't just the two of us. He invited a woman who he wanted me to meet."

"_He brought a date? I thought he and his partner agreed that wasn't allowed since he's been away for so long."_

"No, she wasn't his date," he says, as he sets the bottle and the crate in the refrigerator, and smiles as he notices only about half of the broccoli and cauliflower that he prepared left over in a clear plastic container. "But, well, I don't know. You're better than I am at gauging this kind of stuff. They do give off a weird vibe around each other, though. Like their history's kinda complicated."

"_Hmm… Well, I take it she's in your line of work."_

"She is." After he closes the fridge, his taste buds pique yet again as he breathes in the scent that still fills the air. Determined, he reinitiates his search, and only hears her next question the second time she asks it.

"_Is she attractive?"_

"Yes," he simply replies, grateful that he doesn't have to soft-pedal such things with her. Having, to his disappointment, found nothing in the oven, he stops in the middle of the floor and readies for what he knows her next question will be.

"_Did she hit on you?"_

"Only at first."

"_Before you told her that you're spoken for?"_

"I was about to. But your boyfriend beat me to it."

Listening to her laugh, he peers around on the top of the fridge, only to find nothing new on the surface. Maybe she ate them, he figures. But he soon dismisses the thought as he recalls her firm reminder from that morning that she still refuses to cook for herself. Giving up once more, he grabs the two cloth napkins off of the kitchen table, and heads back to the living room.

Returning his attention to their conversation, he tells her, "We actually talked about you for a bit. I showed her the pictures of you in my phone. She thinks you're very pretty."

"_Well, I can't argue with her taste."_

"Neither can I."

"_So did you like her?"_

"Yeah, I did." Reaching into another bag, he takes out two large cartons of flower petals, a few smaller packages of chocolate confections, and a tiny bottle of massage oil, and sets them off to the side, near the napkins. "She's kind of an old soul. Smart and direct. Unique background. Strong personality. But pretty easy to get along with, I think. She's nice."

"_Sounds like I'm not the only one taking to strangers."_

"You jealous, Lane?" he smirks.

"_Oh, please. We both know I own your ass."_

Chuckling, he replies, "Bearing that in mind, she'd like to meet you."

"_I bet she would."_

"He wants her to meet you, too."

"_If she's the sorta-ex that he refuses to ever talk about, then I can't imagine why."_

"I'm actually with him on this one," he clarifies.

"_I get you two together for one evening, and you're already ganging up on me?"_

"No. It's just that the three of us had a nice time, and we seem to have a lot in common. Besides, you're both a part of his life, and he's now a part of our lives. So…" He trails off, fully aware that he has to tread lightly, and then slowly suggests, "I figured maybe we could all have lunch at the farm next weekend, before he leaves."

"_You're introducing her to Mrs. K. too? Maybe I should be jealous."_

"I think you'll like her, Lois."

"_Oh, yeah. You've just met this woman and you're already trying to put her in the same room with your mother and me. I'm sure I'll be her biggest fan. As a matter of fact…"_

He chuckles, listening to her rattle off several indignant remarks, and starts removing the items from his last and largest bags. When he's finished, he regards the dozens and dozens of various-sized white candles, and their clear glass basins and holders. He got far too many, he realizes, looking around the room and trying to picture where he can put them all. Briefly, he reconsiders setting up in her bedroom, the only space in the apartment larger than the living room. But, as special as he wants their night to be for her, he doesn't want to come across as presumptuous, and he certainly doesn't want to pressure her with suggestive surroundings.

Though still entrenched in his thoughts, he takes the time to cut short her protestations. "Look," he begins with exceeding indulgence, "I can cancel if you're uncomfortable with -"

"_- Uncomfortable? Just who do you think you're talking to? You can cozy up to every crime-fighting hottie in the universe for all I care. I'm not threatened."_

His cheeks strain as he fights the urge to laugh. Only a shot at her ego could change her tune so quickly. Minding his tone, he evenly asks, "Did I just hear a yes to lunch?"

"…_Only if I get to pick out your outfit."_

"Why?"

"_Because ever since you went public, you've had to play down your looks. Which means that I've stopped getting green-eyed death glares from people who hated me for taking you off the market."_

"You never got death-glares."

"_Oh, yes, I did. From the day you mauled me in the middle of the bullpen -"_

"- Okay. C'mon, Lois. I did not maul you."

"_You grabbed me, and you shoved your mouth onto mine. You definitely mauled me."_

He rolls his eyes at her taunting characterization, and asks, "Do you always run off to spend two weeks with the mothers of guys who maul you?"

"_Smart-ass. -"_

Smiling at her response, he puts off figuring out how to arrange the living room, picks up the massage oil, and walks back through the apartment to her bathroom.

"_- What I'm saying is that after your little PDA stunt, I was despised. There was practically a hit out on me at work. But now, these past few months, nothing. Not even a passing glance. And yeah, sure, everyone knows how painfully gorgeous you are as a superhero, but I can't claim you as mine when you're in red and blue."_

"'Painfully gorgeous'?" he asks, beaming.

"_You heard me."_

His chest expanding from her approval, he has to restrain himself from sounding too pleased as he replies, "You can choose what I wear. I don't mind."

"_And what about your hair? Can I do your hair?"_

"No fauxhawks," he stipulates, arriving in her bathroom. He pauses in the doorway as he flips on the switch, and reveals a world quite unlike the one in which he left her. Feeling himself deflate, he takes in the sight of the empty tub, the bare sink, and the plain walls, all awash in stolid fluorescent light.

Standing in place, he can't help being reminded of the days he spent staying at her apartment while she got the distance and perspective that she needed after his reveal. Given how they left things, he knew that he was overstepping by occupying her space, but there was nowhere else he could bear to be. Still though, no matter how busy he tried to keep himself and how useful he tried to make himself, nothing was the same without her. Her warmth wasn't there for him to gravitate to. Her energy didn't charge the air. And each night as he fell asleep in her bed, her absence and the circumstances surrounding it grew all the more insufferable.

"_Hello?... Earth to Clark?..."_

Shaken out of his thoughts, he realizes that he hasn't heard whatever she's been telling him. "I'm still here. Sorry. I got distracted."

"_Are you okay?"_

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine," he says. Assuaging himself with the memory of the night she returned, the first night they shared the same bed, he returns to the task at hand, making his way over to the sink and opening the cabinet beneath it. "What were you saying?"

"_I was agreeing to not give you a fauxhawk. But you will still have to have something out of your face and very dramatic… Maybe a pompadour. Like James Dean! Oh, yeah, that's definitely gonna be your theme. You'll need a vest. Did we get you a well-tailored, casual vest?"_

"Are you putting together an outfit or a costume?"

"_What's the difference?"_

"I've created a monster," he retorts, having found what he was after.

"_The same monster who gave you your hero hairdo, thank you very much. -"_

Standing straight up, he opens her bottle of bubble bath and then his bottle of massage oil, and compares the scents. Certain that the oil he found closely enough matches the lavender and vanilla of the water in which they soaked, he closes the tops and puts the bubble bath back as he continues to listen to her reply.

"_- And in case you've been hanging out too high in the clouds for the past two months, people love that Cary Grant feel. Had E.T. just had your hair, he would've been welcomed with open arms."_

"Why is the ugliest alien the only one you ever compare me to?"

"_Take that back! E.T, was not ugly! He was gross, sure. But he was cute!"_

Scoffing, he walks over to the tub and takes a seat on the edge. "So I get compared to the bug-eyed blob because you like him?"

"_That, and because you get touchy whenever I mention -"_

"- I just don't see what's so great about him."

"_He was my first love, Clark. You're gonna have to get over that._"

Huffing, he glances over his shoulder at the dry, deserted well behind him. He still has no idea what she's up to, he realizes. And he's beginning to think that she just doesn't want to tell him. Downcast by her evasion, he unwraps a few fingers from the bottle in his hand, and uses them to rub his brow.

"_Why haven't you left the bathroom?"_

"What?" he asks, in no mood to be teased.

"_I know you're just sitting around in there. I can hear the echo. What are you doing?"_

"Wondering where you are."

"_Aww…"_

"Please, tell me."

"_Nope."_

"Are you coming back?"

"_Maybe. Maybe not."_

"You don't make anything easy, do you?"

"_What can I say? Someone's gotta bust your super-powered chops."_

"Lois -"

"_- You know, now that I think about it, why would she hit on you with him around? That's kinda tacky."_

After taking a long, exasperated breath, he replies, "I'm pretty sure she only did it to get under his skin."

"_Really? How'd he take it?"_

"Not all that well, which is probably why he was quick to mention us." Standing up and trudging toward the light switch, he turns it off, and forces himself out of the bathroom.

"_Poor guy. Maybe I should've gone after all. He could've flirted with me to get back at her." _

"Only if you wanted to watch me break his legs." Pacing around dejectedly near the foot of her bed, he speaks over her giggles, asking, "Are you busy or something, Lois? Is that why you won't tell me anything?"

"_You think I've abandoned you, Smallville?"_

Hearing her patronizing tone, he throws up his hand in frustration and looks around her room for leverage. Upon finding the first thing that strikes him, he tells her, "If you keep this up, I'm gonna open your nightstand."

"_You wouldn't."_

"You don't know that."

"_I really do."_

He grows silent, scrutinizing his old foe.

"_That stupid drawer really gets to you, doesn't it?"_

Accepting that he's already admitted as much, he quietly replies, "Yes."

"_Why?"_

"Well… Nowhere else around here is off-limits."

"_You're hopeless, you know that?"_

"Forget I ever mentioned it," he sighs.

"_If you want to ask me, Clark, then ask me."_

"…What's in there?"

"_Do you remember your question from earlier? The one you tried to apologize for?"_

"Yeah."

"_Part of the answer is what's in there."_

"…Where's the other part?"

"_I'll give you five guesses."_

His mind stirs and his body warms at her intimation. He blinks, and shifts, and swallows. Why he ever let himself agonize over so simple a matter now entirely escapes him, as nothing but thoughts of her swirl through his head.

"_Clark?... Clark?..."_

Finally hearing her, he clears his throat, and then quickly replies, "Yeah?"

"_Pull yourself together and stop keeping me waiting. I have a surprise for you."_

Taken aback, he wonders if she's returned from wherever she's been. Not wanting her to come upon his unfinished setup in the living room, he speeds through the apartment, and stalls, "What's the surprise?"

"_Why are you whooshing?"_

"I didn't whoosh," he lies, focusing his vision and checking the space opposite her front door.

"_Whatever. Why would I tell you what the surprise is?"_

Finding the hallway empty, he falters, confused all the more. "Um… Because I asked nicely."

"_It's a lap dance."_

"No, it's not," he scoffs, trying to sound disinterested.

"_It is if you want it to be."_

"Are you messing with me?"

"_A little bit. Now stop being a pain and come find me."_

He quickly looks around the room and works through his options. Whatever her surprise is, he determines, it can't take up very much of their time. And he can always finish arranging things later on. His mind made up, he zips through the living room, loading the various items back into the bags, and hiding everything except for the bouquet in the pantry. Having put his coat back on, rechecked his appearance in her bedroom mirror, and placed a couple of granola bars in his jacket pocket, he turns off all the lights and then returns to his normal speed.

"_You're whooshing again, Speedy Gonzales."_

"Maybe there's a draft," he tells her, as he exits the apartment and locks up behind himself.

"_You're a terrible liar."_

"Sue me."

"_Are you coming or not?"_

Glancing to his left and his right, observing the vacant hallway, he replies, "Tell me where you are."

"_Where's the fun in that?"_

Chuckling, he plays along. "Marco."

"_Polo."_

"Marco."

"_Po -"_

Closing his eyes, he focuses his hearing past the walls, ceilings, and floors around him, and out into the restless city. As he searches for the distinctive rhythm buried deep in her chest, every other sound - stray animals, traffic lights, idle conversations - goes deaf to his ears. Listening through vehicles, buildings, crowds, and the chilly winter air, he extends his reach further and further until he identifies and keys in on an unmistakable cadence - a lullaby to which he's fallen asleep on countless nights.

"_- lo."_

"Marco," he smirks, smoothing out his outfit one last time, and taking off.

"_Po -"_

"- lo!"

Hearing his voice finishing her reply and calling out from behind her, she takes her cell from her ear, opens the door to her hybrid hatchback, and peers out to see him walking toward her from behind a concrete column, out of the view of any security cameras.

"What took you so long?" she quips, hanging up her phone and then slipping her glove on her hand.

"Are you serious? That was way under a second."

"Admitting our limitations, are we?"

Slighted, he insists, "I'll go back and do it again if…" He loses his thought as she steps out of and away from her car, and into the light beaming down from the parking garage's rows of overhead lights. Slowing his stride, he takes in her face, made up for the first time today and in dramatic shades meant, he assumes, to complement an outfit that's completely obscured by the black of a full-length wool coat tied about her waist. He realizes that he's stopped walking when he hears her stiletto pumps clicking in his direction, closing the rest of the distance between them. As she approaches him, he runs his eyes over her hair, which was loose and unkempt for most of the day, but is now perfectly manicured, with her bang swept across her brow, and with the top half of her coif pinned back off of her face and flowing into the rest of the fresh waves and curls hanging down her back.

"You're gonna dent whatever car runs into you if you keep standing there," she teases, grabbing his sleeve and tugging him with her out of the driving lane.

Ignoring her remark, he takes the opportunity to trail his gaze down the back of her coat to where it stops, just at her bare calves. Watching her legs, slightly flexed by the height of her heels, he lets her guide him to wherever their destination is. She says something, but he doesn't pay any attention to it, as he's too busy wondering which of the outfits he's seen in her closet could now be underneath her jacket. If the color of her shoes is any indication, he surmises, then there are at least a couple dozen possibilities. He grins, enjoying his guessing game, and lifts his gaze from her lower body just as she lets go of his coat, and they stop in the open parking space on the passenger side of her car.

"So, now or later?"

"What?" he asks, unsure of what she's talking about.

"Were you listening to anything that I just said?"

Unapologetic, he chuckles and shakes his head. In response, she starts to punch his shoulder, but he catches her forearm with one hand and wraps his other around her back. Caught off guard, she steps forward as he pulls her into his embrace.

Her body pressed to his, she peers up at him and, when she's sure of her voice, asks, "Something on your mind?"

He slides his hand along her forearm and over the back of her wrist, and then threads his fingers into hers and presses her palm to his chest. She smiles at his unspoken reply as he leans down past her cheek, avoiding smudging her makeup, and presses a light kiss to the side of her neck, just above the closed collar of her coat.

Tilting his head back up, he finds her gaze, and warmly tells her, "Hello."

"Hi."

"You look nice."

"You don't look so bad yourself."

Rubbing her gloved hand, he observes, "Your hair's different."

"I wet-set it after you left."

"What does that mean?"

She laughs, "Really? As much as you have crammed into that brain of yours, you don't know what wet-setting is?"

As he begins to gently sway her back and forth across the empty space, he whispers, "Your grooming habits weren't exactly a part of my training."

"Any other limitations you wanna own up to tonight?"

"No," he quietly replies, leading her around their makeshift dance floor. "So are you gonna explain your hair to me?"

"Are you gonna insist on helping next time?"

"Maybe."

"I can't tell you all of my secrets, Clark," she smirks, following his slow steps and subtle turns. "The mystery keeps you on your toes."

He laughs, grasping her hand and letting go of her back, and moving away just enough to twirl her around. When she returns to his arms, he stands still and leans down to kiss the other side of her neck. "Does that mean I shouldn't bother asking why you've been hiding three blocks from your apartment?" he whispers against her skin.

Sighing in enjoyment of his especially affectionate spirits, she quietly intones, "Mm-hmm."

"And you're not gonna tell me why you're dressed up?"

"Not yet."

"Fair enough."

Completely oblivious to the various noises and commotions beyond them, he leans back up, moves both of his hands to her waist, and takes her in. Flattered by his gaze, she gives him his moment as she runs her hands up and down his upper arms.

After a brief time, he shifts his stance, reminding himself of their surroundings, and says, "We should get you inside before you catch a cold."

"I've been sitting in the car with the heater blasting. I'm fine," she replies, waving off his concern and moving around him.

He watches as she swings open the passenger door and reaches down to pick up a rectangular tin resting on the front seat. "What were you saying earlier?" he wonders.

"I was asking you whether you wanted both of your surprises now. Or, one now and one later. But since you weren't listening to me, I've decided for you." Turning back toward him, she holds out the container for him. "You'll get the second one in a little while."

"Thank you," he smiles, accepting the tin. For her benefit, he carefully studies its dimensions, shaking it a bit, and raising it up and down to gauge its weight. "It's not a bomb, is it?"

She giggles, "Not this time."

Satisfied with her response, he stops stalling and slowly cracks open the lid. Before his eyes even land on the contents, he breathes in the same scent that filled her apartment, and his palate excites in both relief and impatience.

Watching him take off the top and reach inside, she says, "I didn't know if you had dessert."

"They had some kind of soufflé thing with a weird topping. I passed," he quickly replies, picking up a cookie, still warm from having spent so long in her toasty car, and eagerly taking a bite.

"I know how much you like chocolate chip, but I wanted to put my own twist on it, so there's oatmeal and walnuts mixed in. They're still pretty simple, though."

Too delighted to speak, he makes a sound of thorough appreciation as he chews away on his treat. After he's swallowed, he observes, "These taste homemade."

"That's because they are. I had to fiddle with the recipe a bit, but it worked out, I think."

"They're delicious, Lois. Thank you." After taking another big bite, he realizes his neglect, and holds the tin out to her. "Do you want one?" he mumbles.

"No," she chuckles, stretching up onto her toes and kissing his cheek. "They're for you. Enjoy."

Needing no further encouragement, he continues munching away as she uses her thumb to wipe away the bit of gloss that she left on the side of his face. After she's finished, she turns around to reach back into the car.

When he sees her return with a large satin scarf in hand, one of his eyebrows quirks up in suspicion. "What's that for?"

Ignoring him, she grasps his shoulders and leads him around to the passenger side of her vehicle. Regarding her with confusion, but undeterred in his snacking, he lets her sit him down and buckle him in.

"What's going on?"

"Glasses on or off?" she asks, holding up the scarf.

Realizing the answer to his question, he picks up another cookie, takes a bite, and slowly chews. There's no point in asking for details, he's sure. But he hadn't planned on them being away from her apartment for as long as her appearance and her intent seem to imply they may be. Though already knowing her response, he peers up at her, and suggests, "Can't we just stay in for the rest of the night? Maybe do this tomorrow?"

"A promise is a promise," she reminds.

Loath to spoil her fun, he sets aside any further objections and resolves to cooperate. "On is fine," he replies, offering her a reassuring smile.

She bites her lip to contain her excitement as she leans down a bit, and covers his glasses and his eyes with the thin material. After tying a snug knot around the back of his head, she closes the door, hurries around to the driver's side, and gets in.

"No peeking," she insists, placing a thermos in his hand and then cranking up the car.

He chuckles at the keenness in her voice, nods his head, and relaxes back into the seat.

With nothing before him but darkness, he continues chewing away at his dessert as she drives them through what he assumes is still just the city, given her car's constant stops and the din of traffic. Along the way, she gives him the highlights of the football game that did indeed end up being as much of a blowout as was projected, and he tells her more about the conversations he had over dinner and about his impressions of his new acquaintance. By the time her car comes to a full stop and he feels her shift it into park, he's polished off all but a few of the dozen or so cookies that were originally in his tin, and most of the milk in his thermos.

Listening to her turn off the whisper-quiet engine of her car, he jests, "Are we there yet?"

Lightly laughing, she gets out and makes her way over to the passenger side. After swinging open his door, she reaches down to take both containers from his hands, and to replace their tops.

"I wasn't finished," he complains.

"How do you not eat Mrs. K. out of house and home?"

"By not actually needing all that much food."

"And yet, she's constantly buying groceries."

"Gimme a break. If you of all people could eat as much of what you like, you wouldn't stop, either."

"Touché, Cookie Monster."

He smiles at his small victory as she leans over him to unbuckle his seat belt, and then pull him out of the car. He steps out into an area that he notices is significantly more subdued than the parking garage they left a while ago.

Grabbing her purse and sliding the handle up onto her shoulder, she checks, "You're not peeking, right?"

"Right."

"You swear?"

"Only when provoked - usually by you."

Rolling her eyes and smirking, she shuts the door and locks the car. He listens to the rustles of her jacket as she moves about, situating something, he imagines. Soon after, he feels her reach for his hands and rest them on her waist. Taking the opportunity, he closes the small space between them and wraps his arms all the way around the front of her stomach, hugging her.

"Someone's in a mood," she comments, reaching onto the hood of the car to grab the thermos and the tin.

"I'm just trying to keep you warm."

She looks up over her shoulder at his face, and observes the parts of his contented features not covered by her scarf. Happy to encourage his good humor, she smiles, "You can stay. Just don't step on me."

"Yes, sir."

With her gentle laughter in his ears, he holds her as closely as possible as she begins leading him off in some direction. Employing his highly-attuned perception, he takes care to not trip her as they wind around a corner, and up a slight incline. From the vehicles ambling about not far away from them, and the echoes of car doors opening and closing, he guesses that they're in a parking structure of some kind. After a short walk, they pause for a moment, and he hears the squeaking of a glass door as she opens it and then guides them through it. Wherever they are, he reasons, she must be familiar with the place, given her easy, purposeful movements.

As the door closes behind them, the treads of tires and the hums of engines fade, and they pause again just a few strides inside an area of still, temperate air. After she reaches forward, he hears the pings of what can only be an elevator.

"I know where we are," he tells her, toying with the belt knot in the front of her jacket.

"No, you don't."

"I've been a lot of places."

"Well, you haven't been _in_ here. Not on business, anyway. I checked the papers."

Poking and twisting a finger into her waist, he teases, "Oh, really?"

"Yes, really," she giggles, tickled by his touch. "Now knock it off or you won't get your cookies back."

Heeding her warning, he takes his hand away from her side and wraps both of his arms back around her. At the sound of a loud chime, he follows her as she guides them into an open elevator. As the doors start to close, he feels her lean forward to prevent them, and he hears the quick step of someone making his or her way out of the parking area, through the vestibule, and aboard the mobile space with them.

He listens silently as she asks a person with a cheerful, feminine voice which floor she needs, and then presses a button for her. Given how high the number is, he rules out the parts of the city with buildings too squat to be the one in which they are currently. As she exchanges pleasantries with the newcomer and then, prompted by what must have been the woman's curious gaze, gives her her name and explains why she looks so familiar, he smiles, noting the ways in which she directs the conversation to keep him from learning their location. After a brief pause, he hears the stranger lower her tone as she asks her what the quiet, blindfolded man behind her did to get so lucky. He slightly shakes his head and suppresses a smile as she tersely, but pointedly, explains that he works hard. The elevator stops as the woman makes a sound of understanding, cordially wishes them a good night, and exits.

When the doors close and the elevator starts moving again, he wonders, "Why do women flirt with you all the time?"

"For the same reasons that men do."

"Lemme try that again: Why do women flirt with you _in front of me_ all the time?"

She chuckles, "Because, unlike dudes, chicks aren't intimidated by your size. To us, you just look like an overgrown boy scout who's way more likely to be my little brother than the guy whose mouth I can't keep away from me."

In response to her remark, he quickly leans down and nips at the side of her neck.

"Ah, quit it!" she shrieks and giggles at the sudden, tickling sensation.

She tries to get away from him, but he holds onto her and persists, leaving light, playful bites along the skin just beneath her ear. Her cheeks strain with her laughter, and he only lets up when the elevator pings again and she insists that they've reached their stop.

He grins in triumph and leans back up, listening to her clear her throat as she collects herself, and then feeling her resettle into the circle of his arms. When the doors slide open, she leads them out into a quiet area, disturbed only by the sounds of their footsteps moving across a hard surface and a distant lock clacking into place. After making a couple of turns and a final straightaway trek, they come to a stop.

"Are we there yet?"

"We are," she replies. "So you have to let me go now."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Do you want your dessert back or not?"

"I prefer you to cookies."

"You really are in a mood, aren't you?"

"I'm just making up for the last few hours," he smirks, finally releasing his hold.

She steps away from him, and he listens to her slide something into her coat pocket, and then set something on the floor. When he then begins to hear her clothes rustling again, he figures she freed her hands of the thermos and tin in order to take off her gloves and jacket. And he deems himself correct as he soon after hears her walking around behind him, and feels the warmth of her bare fingers and knuckles untying the knot at the back of his head.

"Keep them closed," she instructs.

"You're the boss, Lane."

After feeling the scarf loosen and after feeling her pull the material away from him, he squints his eyes farther closed, lest she think he's not cooperating, and rights his glasses, which went askew during their journey. Then, standing perfectly still, he waits for her to finish fussing about, picking things up, and mumbling to herself. A ways off, he hears a door open and close, and then the plodding pace of someone making his or her way down a hall, and then the chimes of an elevator. From the white noises that flowed out of the space beyond the person's briefly opened door, he makes what he feels is an accurate guess as to what kind of building they're in. But, for her, he keeps it to himself.

"Okay. I'm ready now. Open your eyes," she says, breaking into his thoughts.

"You sure?"

"Yes."

With an amused grin on his face, he lifts his lids. But his smirk quickly falls away as his jaw slackens at the sight of her, clad in a strapless burgundy dress that must be new, because he would've remembered it in particular had he ever seen it before. Without needing to be asked, she slowly turns, letting him take in the varying aspects of her ensemble: The subtle, sweetheart neckline flattering her bust. The formfitting silhouette hugging every one of her curves. The understated accent lines trailing down her sides and along her hips. And the dramatic, full-length corseted back, with thin cream-colored strings, running from the bottoms of her shoulder blades all the way down to just below the crooks of her knees.

She finishes her turn and waits for him to say something, but he doesn't. After giving him another second, she demurely asks, "So what do you think?"

Hearing her enough to register her question, but not nearly enough to find her eyes just yet, he shifts his stance and adjusts his tie. She smiles at his reflexive response, and then snickers as she watches his cheeks flush ever so slightly.

Another few moments pass before he manages to lift his gaze. Upon finding her eyes, he chuckles unsteadily as he grasps for a coherent thought. Finally feeling sure enough of himself to venture speaking, he swallows the tension in his throat, and then slowly replies, "Lois, that's not a dress. That's…an occasion."

"Would you like to know what the occasion is?" she grins.

"Giving me a heart attack?"

"Cheesy."

"I'm serious, Lois," he says, stepping back to appreciate the whole of her appearance, from her hair down to her heels. But as a thought occurs to him, he gestures to her dress, and asks, "He didn't give you this one, did he?"

"Of course not. He doesn't have a death wish."

Accepting her assurance, he moves back toward her and starts to reach for her waist. But she steps away.

"What?" he asks, at a loss as to what he did to deserve her avoidance.

Lighting laughing, she tells him, "I didn't mean it like that."

"Oh. Okay." He approaches her a second time, but she slips out of his reach again. Even more uncertain than before, he presses, "What did I do?"

"I'm not the surprise, Clark."

"But you're the surprise I want."

"There's that mood again."

Dismissing her remark, he once again tries to eliminate the space between them. "Come here."

"Later," she nearly laughs, extending her arm and pressing against his chest to keep him away. "Look around."

He groans his disappointment, and then complies. For the first time since he opened his eyes, his mind stirs to their surroundings. Glancing to his sides and back over his shoulder, he notices that they've arrived at the end of a long, well-lit corridor, across the hall from a stairwell exit, and just in front of a numbered door. Realizing that he was correct and that they are indeed in a residential building, he looks at the door again, and then at her, and whisperingly sulks, "I don't wanna see whoever's in there."

"Really?" she giggles. "That's your guess?"

"Well, this definitely isn't a hotel."

"It's not."

"So am I wrong?"

"Very." Sticking her hand into one of her coat pockets and then producing a small, gift-wrapped box, she beams, "Happy Off-day!"

"Thank you," he hesitantly replies, reaching out for the present.

Biting her lip in excitement, she watches him unwrap the box and then remove its top. Slowly, he pulls back a few bits of tissue paper, and reveals two pieces of cut brass.

"I don't understand," he tells her, picking up the items.

She takes the empty box and the wrapping paper from him, and quickly pushes them down next to the thermos in her jacket pocket. "Well, open the door."

Quizzically, he looks down at the keys, and then back up at her. Doing as told, he turns to the side and fiddles about until he figures out which key fits the doorknob, and which one fits the deadbolt. After unlocking the door, her grasps the knob, and then looks over his shoulder at her.

"Go on," she encourages.

Still questioning, he turns back, twists the handle, and slowly pushes the door open.

Tranquil, warm air and a faint, familiar scent greet him as he steps just inside an entirely lit and entirely empty area. After peeking around, he admits, "I don't get it."

Hurrying through the door, she shuts and locks it, and moves past him. He watches her scamper off to his side, leave her belongings on a counter, and quickly make her way back to stand in the center of a large area, several strides in front of him.

Grinning ear to ear, she throws out her hands to gesture all around her as she exclaims, "Surprise! It's your homecoming!"

...


	12. Chapter 12

_[Rating: PG-13 - For occasional mild profanity, and for mature dialogue.]_

**CHAPTER 12**

His mouth agape, her buoyant figure before him, he peers down at the keys one last time. Beyond belief, he raises his free hand to rub his brow and to scratch his head as he looks about him at a modest, two-way galley kitchen off to his side, and a spacious living room, completely unfurnished except for simple beige drapes covering an entire wall on the side of the open space opposite him. Glancing up, he sees the rows of recessed lights lining a slightly lofted ceiling, and casting a crisp, ambient glow throughout the room. And glancing down, he sees the glossed finish of dark, hardwood floors.

After several long moments of silence, he begins to fully grasp the situation. Finding her elated gaze, he shakes his head, hoping, "Lois, you didn't…"

"Yes," she admits, rushing over to him. "I sorta did."

"Lois -"

"- Wait, wait, wait. Before you say no, let me explain." Stopping in front of him, she slides her hands underneath the shoulders of his open coat, and starts to push the heavy fabric down his arms. "I knew how much you've wanted to move into the city ever since Mrs. K. got resettled. And I knew how frustrated you've been with the whole process since you've never done it before, and since you've been too busy with the whole red-and-blue thing to put all that much time into it. So, maybe a week or so after you went public, I kinda started looking around for you. And had I been the only party involved, this place would not look as good as it does, and you would be renting."

"Okay…?"

"But as it happens," she gently says, finishing taking off his coat and draping it over her arm, "you have a fairy god-pal who was really sorry for the grief he gave you when he first got here, and who insisted on waving his magic wand a bit when I mentioned that I was having trouble finding you somewhere that fits your unique needs. So…it's yours. I mean, you'd have to sign some things. But, otherwise, it's totally taken care of. So just say yes, and it's yours."

Thunderstruck, he blinks a few times and runs his gaze back over the room. "Is this why you wanted me to play nice with him?"

"Yes and no. I figured you'd be more receptive if you weren't still pretending to hate him. But mostly, I just thought you boys have too much in common to keep bickering for no good reason."

Raising both of his hands and then dropping them in confusion, he looks back down at her, and tells her, "I don't understand. You… When did… Lois, this is -"

"- Totally not a big deal," she interrupts, exaggerating her tone for effect. "He put one of his assistants off on me, and she handled the details. And he doesn't even know where this place is, and, believe me, he doesn't really care. He actually totally forgot about it at one point. And anyway, he just wanted to help out since he understands the position you're in, being who you are."

His mind jumbled, he rubs his unoccupied hand against the back of his neck as he tries to catch his sense of bewilderment up to her sense of excitement. But, despite his efforts, he fails, as he can't help the odd feeling that something is amiss.

"I don't know what to say to this."

"That's okay," she insists, maintaining the brightness in her voice and reaching for the hand behind his neck. "Speechless is fine. I can work with speechless. Lemme give you the grand tour."

At a loss, he lets her thread her fingers into his, and he follows behind her as she leads him into the kitchen. She sets his coat down near her belongings, and he leaves the keys there, too. Tugging him along and gesturing toward things with her hands, she points out the cupboards, stove, and other mundane features, and then mentions that they're roughly the same easy distance from their workplace as they are from her apartment, which, she grants, bears more on her travel time than his. On their way back into the entryway, she assures him that although the kitchen is smaller than the one he's used to, there's still plenty of space for him to set up a dining area just opposite the bar dividing the kitchen from the living room.

"Now," she goes on, ushering him toward one of the open doors leading out of the main area, "I know it's kinda overkill, but there are two bedrooms and two bathrooms. I figure you're always letting people crash at the farm, and your buddies are bound to follow you wherever you go." Switching on a light and leading him into and through a smaller room, she says, "So you could put a bed in here, or you could use it as an office. Either way, one of the best things about this place is that it's at the end of the hall. Which means there'd never really be anyone other than you and your guests outside of your front door. And which also means that you'd only be sharing one wall. That one."

As she points toward the side of the room opposite the open door, he simply nods, and lets her continue.

"But take my word for it, the building is amazing, so even if someone screams bloody murder in here, your neighbors - who, by the way, are a boring-beyond-belief broker and his latest boy toy - still wouldn't really hear anything. Oh, and the ceilings and floors are totally soundproof. So you'd basically be in your own little universe…"

Studying her animated gestures and listening to her attention to detail, the cause for his concern becomes increasingly clear. After she's gone on about various other things for several more minutes - noting the contemporary but still homey design and architecture, describing the amenities that come with living in a high-rise, and envying him being able to park in the building, which isn't a luxury she enjoys - he attempts to get in a word.

"Lois -"

"- No, wait," she interjects, leading him out of the spare bathroom and back through the living room. "I haven't even shown you the best part."

He reluctantly lets her go as she releases his hand and hurries off to the side of the room with the wall-length drapes.

"Are you ready for this?" she asks, full of exhilaration.

Seeing her so energetic and so enthused, he can only sigh, and nod his head.

Taking his cue, she throws back the fabric, revealing a lofty, panoramic view of the city beyond several floor-to-ceiling picture windows and what he quickly realizes is a sliding door.

"Tada!" she proclaims.

He lightly laughs, affected by both her thoughtfulness and her theatrical presentation.

Holding out her hand, she insists, "Well, come here."

Obligingly, he walks over to her, rethreads his fingers into hers, and observes the recessed balcony on the opposite side of the glass.

"See?" she smiles, leaning up and quickly kissing his cheek. "You could come and go whenever you want, and no one would ever know."

Feeling her affection and hearing her consideration, he takes a long, contemplative breath.

"What is it?" she asks, sensing the change in his mood.

He looks up from the city's skyline and notices for the first time that they're high enough above the light pollution to see many of the brightest stars. Recognizing the view of the night sky as another of the touches she must have had in mind when she settled on the apartment, he feels his throat constrict and his chest ache as his sudden gloom increases.

"What's wrong? Do you hate it?"

"Of course not, Lois," he quietly replies, his eyes far away.

She studies the side of his face, trying to figure out what could be the matter. Thinking that he's working up to declining her offer, she rallies her remaining cheer and starts to tug at his hand. "Alright, that's enough stargazing, Galileo. I still haven't shown you the master bedroom."

"I don't need to see it."

"Oh, c'mon," she says, pulling him a few steps away from the windows and toward a closed door. "You're gonna like it. I promise."

"Lois -" he starts to protest.

Feeling him resist her lead, she lets go of his hand and quickly cuts him off. "- Look," she begins to ramble, presuming the nature of his objections, "I know how much your dad means to you, but please don't go Pa Kent on me. You would still be taking care of insurance, and taxes, and utilities, and whatever else."

"It's not that -"

"- Well, there's no ulterior motive here," she swears. "He's not trying to buy you or anything. He's just trying to do me a favor - one buddy to another. And he's just trying to do you a solid - one cape to another."

"No, Lois, he's not the issue."

She lifts her eyebrows, questioning him. In response, he sighs, clenches his jaw, and then moves toward her to rest his hands on her shoulders. She looks at her upper arms and instantly recognizes his gesture. Finding his gaze, she asks, "Well, what did I do?"

He pauses for a moment, bracing himself for what he's certain won't be a pleasant reaction, and then starts to say something. But upon seeing his solemnity, she inches closer to him, reaches for the bottom of his cardigan, and breaks into their silence. "Are you mad at me?"

"Why would I be mad at you?"

"That's not an answer."

He quickly glances down between them, seeing her fingers wringing his sweater. Meeting her gaze, he rubs her arms, saying, "It's okay. I'm fine."

"No, you're not," she worries. "You haven't even answered my question."

He feels his top slacken as she lets it go and, growing more anxious, steps back and out of his reach. Observing her shoulders slumping and her brow creasing, he moves toward her again, and tries harder to reassure her.

"I'm not mad at you."

"Yes, you are," she fears, instinctively continuing her retreat. "I went overboard and now you're angry with me."

He halts his progress, understanding that it's the only way to get her to stop recoiling, and then answers her honestly: "Yes, Lois, you did go way, way overboard. But that's just because you don't know how to do anything halfway, which isn't -"

"- And that's why you're upset?" she asks, standing in place.

"Of course not. You know that's one of my favorite things about you. It's just…" He trails off, and then, looking around the room, he sharply exhales. "Lois, when have you had time to apartment-hunt for me?"

"I had help," she shrugs, not following his line of logic.

"Okay. But why are you doing this?"

"I already told you: You've been busy, so I figured I'd help you out."

Hearing her reply, he huffs, and drops his head into his hand. Distressed, unsure of how to get her to engage him without sending her into a rage, he racks his mind for a viable option. Still at a loss, he lifts his head and turns around. After making his way back over to the windows, he pulls the drapes closed, removes his glasses and tucks them into the pocket of his cardigan, and then turns back to her.

Seeing his face and anticipating how serious he's about to get, she groans, "Oh, great…"

"We need to talk."

"No."

"Yes."

"No. Absolutely not. I am not having any conversation that starts with 'We need to talk.' I have dumped way too many people to fall for that one."

Ignoring her deflection, he gets right to his point and asks the question to which he's afraid he already knows the answer: "Lois, have you missed me?"

"Oh, god," she scoffs, unfolding her arms and rolling her eyes.

"I'm serious," he says, taking a few steps into the space between them. "Because this is what you do when you miss me."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do," he adamantly replies, pushing back against her refusal to discuss what, unbeknownst to them both, has been going on with her. "When either of me used to disappear, you'd do something to distract yourself. If it was The Blur, you wrote an article about him. If it was me, you took Shelby for the weekend or something."

Cocking her head at him, she evenly retorts, "I like my job, and I like your dog. Big deal."

"Don't do that."

Her first instinct being to avoid whatever he's driving at, she balks. But, appreciating the gravity in his tone and gaze, she takes a deep breath, and gives in. "Fine."

At the sound of her concession, he shifts his stance, and presses, "Is this how much you've missed me? You've been making recipes, and planning my wardrobe, and finding me a place to live?"

He watches her pause. He watches her blink. He watches her lift her eyebrows in question. As he slowly begins to comprehend her genuine confusion about a problem she doesn't even see, his mind and his body begin to sting from agitation. He scoffs, bringing his hands to his face once more. Trying to temper the anger he feels mounting within him, he squeezes his eyes closed and grits his teeth. She'll take it the wrong way if he says anything just now, he knows. Whatever energy he gives out, he'll get back in exponential degrees. But with this matter of all, he simply doesn't have the patience for restraint. Feeling her perplexed gaze and feeling his exasperation brimming, he shifts and turns, beginning to pace.

Discomposed, irate, he muffles into his palms, "Lois. You _cannot_ keep doing this."

"Doing what?"

"Letting me get away with everything!" he shouts, jerking his hands away from his face.

Startled by his deafening reply and worried for his distressed state, she starts to take a step toward him, but thinks the better of it. Watching him stalk around aimlessly in the wide-open space, she lets him vent, trying to understand what's wrong with him before she tries to calm him down.

Furious, he glares at her and tosses his hands about as he rages, "_This_ didn't have to happen! I know that things haven't been ideal. I know that we've both been busy. And I thought it was okay because I thought you were mostly fine. But had I known that you missed me _this much_, I would have gladly taken you away to someplace in the middle of nowhere for a weekend, and given you as much of my undivided attention as you could stand! We could've done anything! We could've done nothing! We could've done whatever would've made you happy!"

At the sound of such an accusation, she plants her hands on her hips, and demands, "What the hell are you talking about?"

"About you being upfront with me!"

"About what?"

"About us!"

"Alright, back it down, Clark." Shifting her weight to one leg, she firmly insists, "I am not jealous of your calling. I know what I mean to you. And I don't need my hand held 24/7. So -"

"- But would you _like_ your hand held 24/7?"

"Oh, my god, Clark. Speak English!"

Halting his pacing, his head having begun to throb, he squares his shoulder to her, and thunders, "I am asking you what you want from me! I do _not_ care if you think you do or do not need it! What do you _want_?"

As if the answer were plainly obvious, she shouts back, "For you to stop being mad at me!"

"I'm not mad at you!"

"Then why are you acting like I'm a bad person for not giving you grief about who you are?"

"Really?" he yells, incredulous. "_That's _what you're hearing right now!"

"Well what the hell am I supposed to hear when you're speaking alien?"

Throwing his hands up and sharply groaning, he turns away from her again and takes a few steps in one direction, and then a few more back in the other direction. Feeling no better, he shakes his head and struggles to find his way back to himself. Finally, in a quieter voice, he sighs his frustrations, "I thought… I thought we were clear."

"About what?"

"About _us_," he repeats in a calmer tone than before.

"I don't understand this, Clark," she shrugs, taking her hands from her hips. "I just wanted to do something nice for you."

"And you have. You have done an incredibly nice thing for me," he says, stopping in place and facing her. "But given how big a thing it is, it's making me wonder whether the time and energy that you put into it is, in some way, you channeling all the time and energy that you haven't been able to spend directly on me."

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"I want you to answer my question."

For a moment, she considers pretending to not know what he's asking. But with the truth written on every surface of the space she was so intent on finding for him, there's no point in denying the obvious. Still though, saying the words would make all-too clear what her actions have only implied.

He watches her, seeing the changes in her face that signify her ambivalence. Confronted for the second time today with the consequences of her permissiveness and her self-possession, he resets his jaw, contemplating. And then, after a weighty pause, he assumes a determined stance, holds her gaze, and speaks directly to the matter at hand:

"Lois, I spent over two years in the shadows, just like every other faceless, unaccountable vigilante - helping the people I could, but affecting very little beyond them. It drove me crazy sometimes - trying to be everywhere, trying to save everyone. And I suffered for it. And so did my relationships."

"Clark, you don't have to -"

"- Stop talking," he gently interrupts, holding his ground against her reluctance to hear the avowal to which he's building. After seeing her resign herself to his sincerity, he begins to slowly close the distance between them as he goes on, "But it's not like it was then. Now, I get to see the light in this world, instead of just the dark. Now, with people hearing me, with people seeing me, I have become so much more than my deeds. It's what I mean to people - it's what I stand for and what I symbolize - that matters. Because of that, my influence doesn't end after I stop something bad from happening. And knowing that I don't have to always be out there to still give people hope and to still inspire them is what allows me to commit to you in a way that I never could before."

Standing directly in front of her, he takes her hands in his, both affirming his connection to her, and keeping her from withdrawing. And then, quietly and tenderly, he tells her, "Lois, you are every reason why. I am better, stronger because of the person you are, and because of how having you in my life grounds me and elevates me… So if I am ever, _ever_ getting this balance wrong, then you have to tell me. Because there is absolutely nothing that I wouldn't…"

He trails off as she breaks their gaze and her chin shudders.

"Oh, no. Please, don't," he implores, letting go of one of her hands and reaching up to touch the side of her face. "I didn't mean to make you -"

Having heard as much as she can take, she pulls away from him before he can make contact with her cheek, and cuts him short before he can start to apologize. "- Stop. You're just gonna make it worse."

"No, I'm not," he says, starting after her as she takes off in one direction.

"Yes, you are."

"Lois, please -"

"- Leave me alone."

"No," he flatly refuses, hearing her tone growing more agitated, and watching her pace around and fan her eyes. "You've already done that twice more today than you have in the past three months. I'm not gonna let you do it again."

"Well, what the hell do you expect, Clark?" she snaps, her indignation growing. "I've already been on an emotional roller coaster with you since this afternoon, and now you wanna grandstand about how you feel about me."

Trying to corral her, but finding it impossible to do with every odd twist and turn that she makes, he calmly attempts, "Lois, come here -"

"- Oh, screw you! You are such a pain in my ass. You do nothing but infect me with your stupid goo, and then you have the nerve to ask me if I miss having some super-powered spaceman around to make me cry all the damn time. I mean, what makes you think…"

He sighs, absorbing the turnabout of his ill temper. Hearing her lash out at him with one empty accusation and one overblown complaint after another, he nonetheless manages to take comfort in her hostility. He well knows that she's just channeling an emotion that she doesn't want to deal with into one that she's always happy to indulge.

By the time she's zigzagged her way across the room for a second time, she's stopped wafting air at the tears that, to his relief, never fell. And so, still trailing behind her, he once again tries to break into her rant, "Lois -"

"- Don't talk to me."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't wanna hear anything that you have to say."

"Why not?"

"Because it only ever serves your sick fascination with watching me blubber like an idiot. And I spent too much time on this makeup to give you the satisfaction of seeing me ruin it."

Knowing there to be no point in waiting for her to run out of what fourteen months with her has assured him of being an endless amount of steam, he raises his voice just enough for her to hear him clearly, and insists, "Would you hold still, please?"

"Fine!" she shouts, turning on her heel and stopping in place so quickly that he nearly runs into her. "Go away!"

"You don't mean that."

"That wasn't a question -"

Before she can finish her remark, he quickly steps toward her, grasping the backs of her arms and leaning his mouth down to hers. But before he can capture her lips, she wrenches away from him and hits an even higher volume.

"Oh, my _god_!" she yells. "Is that your answer to everything? Maul her so she'll shut up?"

"I wasn't trying to shut you up," he says, regretting his split-second decision.

"Then what the hell were you doing?"

"Trying to calm you down."

"I am calm!"

"Okay," he says, with more sarcasm than he means. "Then calm_er_ was what I was going for."

"Keep it up, smart-ass," she dares, moving past him.

Noticing the purpose in her steps and fearing that she's intent on leaving, he hurries to catch up to the hard, rapid clicks of her heels as she makes her way toward the kitchen.

"I didn't mean that."

"Tell it to someone who cares."

"C'mon, Sweethe -"

"- Finish that word and, I swear to god, I will redefine the phrase 'silent treatment' for you."

"Lois, please, can't we just call a truce or something?"

"Oh, stop being reasonable," she grates, passing around the side of the bar and stopping in front of the counter where they left their things. "You know I hate that."

He halts his pursuit of her just outside of the kitchen, clear of her personal space, and tries again: "I'm not trying to be reasonable. I just don't want us to keep fighting."

"You started it."

"I did. And I'm sorry."

"And now you're handling me."

"I'm not handling you."

Finding what she's after, she seizes the white envelope that she's been carrying around all day, and then turns toward him. Seeing his large form crowding the exit, she narrows her eyes at him, and demands, "Move."

"No." Standing firmly, he makes clear, "You can yell at me all you want, but I'm not going anywhere."

She sizes him up, and quickly realizes that she should've thought further ahead. As it is, she's trapped herself, and may very well have to accede to his wish of putting the place they're in into the context of their relationship.

But, defying him, she takes two determined strides toward the sliver of open space just off to his side. Anticipating her, he sticks his arm out and plants his hand on the counter, cutting off her escape. She looks up to glare at him and then takes a step to the side, but he puts his other hand on the pantry door, and asks, "Do you even know what you're so upset about?"

She lets out a maddened groan and retreats back into the kitchen. "Why does everything I say or do have to have a reason?" she grumbles, not really facing him. "Why can't I scream at you just because I feel like it? Why can't I give you a present without you x-raying the wrapping for hidden messages?"

"Is that why you're angry? You don't wanna admit to missing me?"

"I don't miss you!" she shouts, slamming the envelope onto a counter and squaring back around to him.

He takes his hands away from the opposite sides of the exit and shakes his head at her irritability. "You are a worse liar than I am."

"Do I need to remind you that if I hit you, it'll hurt?"

"You wouldn't hit me."

"But I would refuse to talk to you."

"How long are we gonna keep doing this?"

"For at least as long as it takes you to move."

"You can't get rid of me, Lois."

"Oh, really? Do you wanna test that little theor -"

"- May I kiss you?"

Her racing mind comes to a grinding halt at the sound of his request. Thrown, she blinks several times, and then scoffs, "Excuse me?"

"I would like to kiss you. I am asking for your permission."

"You cannot be serious."

He pauses, studying her. He only blurted out his question because he needed something to say to keep her from revving up again, and it was the first thing to come to his mind. But, to his relief, he's finally getting somewhere. Pursuing his tactic, he slowly takes a step toward her, and points out, "That wasn't a no."

"…Are you reading me?"

"As a matter of fact, I am not," he tells her, watching her withdraw farther into the kitchen. But, given the changes in her tone and bearing, he continues his approach. "Because the only detail I care about right now is that you haven't said no."

She glances about, trying to get some traction, trying to relocate her indignation, but before she can manage to, she backs into the wall directly opposite the entrance and fails to register anything but him coming upon her. Already flustered, she looks away from him and trembles as he reaches out with one hand, and slowly brushes the back of a single finger down the base of her throat and across her collarbone.

In a mostly futile attempt to steady herself and in a mostly ego-driven attempt to keep herself from touching him, she spreads her hands against the wall. After he's finished tracing the top of her shoulder, she feels his finger sweeping back across her skin, up her neck, and just underneath her jaw. She lifts her gaze to his when he applies a bit of pressure to her chin, and she finds him with a slight smile on his face.

"What?" she whispers, wary of speaking any louder lest she betray her instability.

"I just realized something," he quietly tells her, resting his other hand on her waist. "We're locked away in a tower."

She smiles at his mention of the fleeting notion he had earlier in the day, and watches him lean down to her.

He stops just short of his destination, and tenderly asks, "May I?"

"This doesn't mean that I'm conceding defeat."

"Of course not."

"And it doesn't mean that I'm not still mad."

"I know."

"It doesn't even mean that I like you."

"Understood."

"It only means that I feel sorry for you, and that I'm nice enough to let you get right the one thing that you never get wrong."

"Even when I maul you?"

"Just shut up and kiss me, Clark."

"Yes, ma'am," he replies, completing his journey and pressing against her glossy, rouged lips.

She sighs, instantly relaxing into him, and moves her hands from the wall to his sides. Carefully, thoroughly he attends her mouth, guiding her movements, offering her his textures and tastes. After a long, leisurely while, he pulls back from her, and warms at the sight of her still-closed eyes.

When she eventually finds his gaze, he reintroduces his voice to the peaceful atmosphere of the apartment, coaxing, "Answer my question. Please."

She licks her lips and leans back into the wall, and then begins making her final denials: "I see you practically every day."

"At work, which does not count."

"We've hung out."

"Occasionally."

"You're always trying to make out with me."

"Not nearly as often as I've wanted to." She chuckles a bit at his response, and, when her laughter quiets, he traces his fingers along the bottom of her jaw, and simply asks, "Have you missed having me to yourself, Lois?"

She takes a deep breath, moving her hands to hold the front pockets of his sweaters, and then, ever so slightly, she nods.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I know it won't always be like it has been. So I didn't think it was that big of a deal."

He takes a meaningful pause, sliding the tips of his fingers back into her hair and cradling the side of her face in his palm. Then, pointedly, he tells her, "Lois, how you feel is as big as a deal gets for me. So whether or not you think something matters all that much, I still need you to tell me about it… Because it may just take you giving me an apartment before I figure it out for myself."

She smiles in understanding, and reaches her arms up to encircle his neck. He leans down, wrapping both of his arms around her back and returning her hug.

Holding her closely and rocking her a bit, he whispers, "You can be selfish with me, okay? I want you to be selfish with me." After feeling her nod against his shoulder, he pulls back a bit and finds her eyes. "I'm serious, Lane."

"I know."

"Starting now. Ask me for something. Something that's not small. Something that involves time."

She exhales a sulking groan and pouts her lips.

"Come on, you can do it," he chuckles.

He watches her roll her eyes in as exaggerated a manner as possible, and he laughs even more. While she thinks, he steps back, leading her to the other end of the kitchen. When they get to a portion of the counter near their things, he turns them around a little, grasps her waist, and lifts her up.

"Okay, I know what I want," she tells him, as he gently rests her on the surface.

"Name it."

"Comic-Con," she nearly exclaims, already giddy at the thought. "San Diego is a mecca for every sci-fi fan. I have to pay homage."

Standing aside her crossed legs, he drapes his arms around her hips, and smirks, "Is this because Metropolis Wonder-Con let you down?"

"Well, it was a first annual, so it was no fun. No one famous came out and people hardly even dressed up," she sulks, toying with the collar of his shirt. "Besides, you weren't there for me to complain to."

He leans forward to quickly kiss her shoulder, and then says, "Well, now is not then, so I will be there to take you this time. We'll make a whole vacation out of it. We'll even go to Disneyland, since you managed to never have that childhood experience."

"Do they make mouse ears for grown-ups?"

"I'm sure they do," he replies. "I have one condition, though."

"Okay."

"Well, I figure you're gonna wanna wear costumes every day that we're at the convention."

"Of course."

"So, if it's alright with you," he slowly begins, steeling himself as he works through his long-held resentment, "I'd like to go as Han at least once. "

"Really?" she gasps, breathless from excitement.

"Really."

He grins as she throws her arms around his neck and pulls him into a tight squeeze, thanking him over and over again, and insisting upon how good he'll look in a V-neck shirt, with a blaster on his hip. He rubs her back, listening to her wonder about whether anyone makes an authentic metal bikini for what she plans to wear to match him. When she eventually starts to slow down a bit, he straightens back up, saying, "All that sounds great, but it's six months away. What do you want now?"

She bites her lip, considering. And then, after having glanced around for a moment, she reaches for his coat and peeks inside the pocket in which he always keeps her snacks. Finding a couple of granola bars, she smirks at his thoughtfulness, but dismisses the thought of something nutritious so late in the day. After setting his jacket aside, she finds his gaze again, and makes a different request. "One of your cookies."

He cocks his head at her and chuckles, contenting himself with her first steps in a more demanding direction. When he's finished, he unbuttons and takes off his sweater, and then spreads it across her lap.

Confused, she tells him, "I'm not cold."

"I know." Grabbing the tin, opening it, and then handing it to her, he explains, "It's just that it'd be a shame to get any crumbs on your dress."

As a thank-you, she breaks off a piece of one of the cookies and holds it up to his mouth. He takes the bite from her, and then happily watches as she picks up the rest of the cookie and begins eating away.

In the midst of one of her chews, she remembers something, and muffles, "I forgot. That's for you."

He peers over toward where she's pointing, and asks, "Do you want me to open it?"

"Now's as good a time as any."

"This can't possibly be from you," he figures, reaching over her lap and picking up the envelope.

"Why not?"

"Because if it were, then you would've waited for a precise moment."

He listens to her softly laugh and continue munching as he slides a simple white card out of the unsealed envelope. After setting aside the sleeve, he rubs her knee with his free hand as he reads the elegant lettering of a handwritten note:

_CK -_

_As I'm writing this, she's telling me for the third time this afternoon about how perfect she thinks whatever place she found for you is. And for the third time this afternoon, she's swearing me to secrecy and threatening to clip my wings if I say anything to you about her surprise over our dinner tomorrow evening._

_She's an exceptional woman, Kent. And that she cares so much about you says everything that anyone ever need know about the man that you are._

_I hope you'll accept this token as an affirmation of my regard for the two of you, and as a gesture toward the friendship that I hope you and I may someday share. _

_- BW_

He smiles to himself, looking from the note to her, and then back again.

"What?" she asks, unscrewing the top to the thermos and taking a sip of milk.

"Have you read this already?"

"No. He just didn't bother with sealing it." Craning her neck, she wonders, "What does it say?"

"That you're still as much of a bully as you ever were."

Preoccupied with drinking a bit more of the cool liquid, she kicks the side of his leg in lieu of a verbal reply.

Smiling, he keeps the card from her eyeline, tucks it back into the envelope, and then sets it down on the countertop. As he resituates himself next to her, wrapping one hand around her back and resting the other on her thigh, he ventures, "I think it says that he's gonna miss you when he leaves."

"It does not."

"It kinda does."

Biting into the second to last of his cookies, she asks, "Will you take me to visit him sometimes?"

"I'll gladly take you as far as the airport." After receiving another kick, he chuckles, "Kidding, kidding. I'll take you whenever you want. He's probably already having a wing of his home renovated just for you."

"Speaking of homes…" she slowly edges, breaking off another piece and feeding it to him. "You still haven't seen the master bedroom."

"I already told you: I don't need to."

As she takes her hand from his lips, she pauses, and studies him. Watching him suppress a smirk as he chews, she sets aside the container and pulls his sweater off of her lap. "Did I just hear a yes?"

"I'd have to be crazy to say no."

"So yes?"

"Yes, Lois."

"Oh, my god!" she exclaims, quickly sliding off the counter and launching herself into his arms.

He leans down, wrapping her up, and letting her hold onto his neck as she dots a series of kisses to his cheek and temple.

"Are you excited?" she beams, eventually pulling back to meet his gaze.

Smiling at her exuberance, he replies, "Very."

"Do you feel spoiled?"

"Ridiculously."

"And surprised?"

"Absolutely."

Tingling with every bit of the excitement she feels, she grasps the back of his neck and pulls him down into an eager kiss. Holding her closely, feeling how ecstatic she is for him, he bites back a grin and reciprocates as best he can.

"You're gonna love it here," she smiles against his lips. "I swear."

"I believe you."

She lets out a long sigh, calming herself down enough to let him go. Standing back in his embrace, she finds his eyes, and they exchange warm gazes as he traces his fingers along the strings crisscrossing down the back of her dress, and she runs her fingers along his tie.

After a brief while, he leans down to dot his lips to hers, and then says, "I suppose I shouldn't even bother asking."

"I don't play house, Smallville," she reminds, not needing him to explain his meaning. "I never have."

"Yeah, I know," he admits. "But who says we'd be playing?"

She chuckles, "Daddy would. And while we don't agree about much -"

"- Especially me. Both of me."

"Yes, while I don't agree with The General about either of you, I have always seen eye-to-eye with him on this kinda thing."

"Understood," he accepts, kissing her again.

As he pulls away, she cheerfully insists, "Besides, this place is yours. It's completely yours. Embrace the independence. Own it. Enjoy it."

He laughs, "I'm not exactly single, Lois."

"Well, neither am I. But I still have a bachelor pad."

With the sound of his amusement still in her ears, she takes her hands from his tie and turns around in his arms. Without needing a reason, he leans down and nuzzles her neck with his lips as she grabs the last cookie from the tin, and holds it over her shoulder for him.

"You don't want it?" he checks.

"I'm good, thanks."

"You sure?"

"Yes. Now, follow me."

He takes the cookie from her as she starts to lead them out of the kitchen. "Where are we going?" he asks, keeping one hand spread across her stomach as he eats the last of his dessert from his other hand.

"To _your_ bedroom," she smiles, putting as much emphasis as possible on the second word. "I actually have one more surprise for you."

As they round the bar and head through the main area, he slips the final bite of cookie into his mouth, brushes off the crumbs on his fingers against his pant leg, and then wraps his other arm around her. When they arrive outside of the closed door that she previously tried to persuade him toward, she tells him to close his eyes, and he does just that. Deprived of his sight once more, he focuses on her movements, feeling her reach forward and turn the knob that he can still see in his mind's eye. After hearing a metal latch release and then hearing the hushed drone of the door as she pushes it open, he feels a soft rush of air drift past his skin, carrying with it the scent that he couldn't quite place when they first entered what he's already begun to think of as his first apartment. But now, as she leads him a few steps forward into the room and onto a carpeted floor, he's certain as to the source of the crisp, fresh notes, even if he can't yet imagine what they have to do with her surprise.

"You ready?" she asks, looking over her shoulder at him.

"I am."

"Open."

At the sound of her reply, he raises his lids, and into his vision comes the sight of a large space with the same slightly lofted ceiling and recessed lights as the main area, and with similar beige drapes covering a row of picture windows that, instead of lining the entire height of an adjacent wall, stops a few feet short of the floor at the top of a long, broad window seat. But those aspects hardly manage to capture his notice as he stands, bewildered, gazing at the room's centerpiece.

"What do you think?"

Her quiet, hesitant question draws his eyes down to her, and he finds her looking back at him, biting her lip in uncertainty. Glancing back up at the focus of their attentions, he parts his lips to respond, but no words come to mind. Having not expected what he's found, he shifts a bit and adjusts the circle of his arms around her. Then, after taking another few seconds to form a thought, he asks, "That's my surprise?"

"Not technically," she nervously replies, pulling his hands away from her.

He releases his embrace and watches her begin to make her way further into the room. "What do you mean?"

"Well, um…" She trails off as she passes behind a complementary bench and the two tall posts at opposite ends of a footboard. Stepping back into his line-of-sight, she meets his gaze and timidly fingers one of the sheer curtains hanging from a long wooden rail, and pulled back into a far corner of the object in question. After briefly clearing her throat, she explains, "The way I see it, you and me are probably gonna be, uh…roommates…someday. So I wanted you to have something that's as much mine as yours… I mean, it sounds really corny now that I'm saying it out loud, but, um… Well, anyway, what I'm saying is that if you want, you can just hold onto it for the time being, and think of it as…ours."

Upon hearing her last word, spoken softly and in a whisper, he pauses, contemplating the significance of her gift. After a long moment, a generous, disbelieving smile blooms across his face, and he repeats, "Ours?"

"If you want."

He lets out a slight chuckle and sticks his hands in his pockets as he regards the varying aspects of her gesture toward their future - the mahogany composing the classic and yet contemporary canopy frame, the pillows and comforter covering the considerable space, the matching nightstands on either side of the headboard.

Affected beyond measure, he speaks as much to himself as to her as he quietly says, "You got us a bed."

"I got us a bed."

He shakes his head and lightly laughs, looking from her to their shared possession, and back again. Instinctively, he takes a few steps forward and stops along the side opposite her. After taking in the impressive display for a few moments longer, he realizes that she hasn't said much, and he checks, "Do you like it?"

"Yeah, I do," she replies, almost shyly.

"Good." As a thought occurs to him, though, he asks, "But what about the mattress? I mean, I can sleep anywhere, but I know you can't."

She smiles at his consideration, and assures him, "I actually figured you'd prefer I get something more to my tastes. So I just went ahead and got the highest-end one that I could find. It's supposed to last forever - by mattress standards, I guess. Like twenty years or something…" She trails off, suddenly uneasy at the thought of suggesting how far into the future she's imagined their relationship enduring. Veiling her discomfort in humor, she jests, "Anyway, the lifespan thing is probably a load of bull. And if it's not, then you and your next 'plus-one' can benefit from the fruits of my labors."

"I'm sure Bart'll love it," he retorts.

She tilts her head at him and chuckles, both surprised by his subsequent comprehension of what she hinted at earlier in the morning, and thankful for his perception of her embarrassment and his careful handling of it. Feeling more composed, she mentions, "I wasn't so sure about the linens, though. So you can always change them."

"No, they're great," he insists, looking down at the rust-colored duvet, subtly accented with shades of goldenrod and maroon, and holding the very same scent of the detergent that she uses for her own sheets and blankets. "It's warm," he observes. "It reminds me of you."

She averts her gaze from his for a moment, feeling herself blush at his sentiment. Then, letting go of the curtain in her grasp, she moves away from the corner a bit, and makes another joke: "You know, the best thing is that this is a California King. So when we fight, I can just shove you to the other side and pretend you're not there."

He smirks, taking his eyes away from hers and sliding a hand out of his pocket. "You wouldn't let me anywhere near you if we fought," he absently replies, reaching out and gently touching their present for the first time. "And you definitely wouldn't let me sleep in the same bed - no matter how big it is."

She watches him run his fingers along a small area of the comforter, and she watches his wry smile disappear. Sensing the change in his mood, she remains quiet and lets him work through the thoughts that she cannot intuit. After several more moments of silence pass between them, she wonders, "What is it?"

Lost in thought and unsure of how to articulate what's on his mind, he swallows the swell of emotion in his throat and runs his gaze back up to the head of the bed, searching for something with which to answer her. More contemplative and more discerning than before, he recognizes the mostly obscured color and pattern of the item missing from her apartment. "Is that your pillow?"

She starts to press him about whatever he was thinking of a second ago, but decides against it. Making her way to the item under his scrutiny, she replies, "Yeah, it is." Reaching onto the bed, she plucks her misplaced pillow from behind the ones matching the linens, and explains, "I figured you might wanna take a rain check on your second night at my place, and just camp out here. So I threw some snacks and a bunch of our stuff into the closet in the other bedroom."

Amused, he manages to chuckle despite his preoccupied mind. "Just in case?"

"It never hurts to be prepared, right?"

"Are you making fun of me?"

"A little bit."

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

"As always."

"Because I'm your favorite toy?"

"Oh, god," she scoffs, making a show of rolling her eyes, leaving her side of the bed, and heading back around the footboard to the door. "It is way too late in the day for mush. What is _not_ too late in the day for is Nintendo DS. So I hope you're prepared to get your ass kicked."

He watches her whiz past him at her usual brisk pace, but before she can leave, he manages to speak up. "Lois?"

"Yeah?" she asks, turning back around to face him.

After peering down at the duvet a final time, he clenches his jaw, steadying himself, and then takes his hand away from the fabric. "I um…" he slowly begins. "I know you said that you weren't done spoiling me, but, uh… I went ahead and got a bunch of stuff for a picnic."

"You went to China?"

"Yeah, I did," he admits, squaring himself to her.

"Well, I'm up for pampering," she smiles, trying to not betray her curiosity about his hesitance. "Are you saying that you don't wanna stay here?"

"No. Here, um… Here feels right."

"Okay. You know me and chocolate: anytime, anywhere."

"…That's not what I meant."

He watches her entire body tense at the sound of his reply. She shifts her weight from one leg to the other, and blinks several times. Out of habit, she starts to cross her arms, but resists doing so when she realizes that that movement may send the wrong message. Instead, she channels the energy in her hands elsewhere, sweeping a finger across her brow and underneath her bang, and tucking a few imaginary strands of hair back behind her ears. After taking a few more seconds to rein in the thoughts racing through her mind, she asks, "We are talking about what I think we're talking about, right?"

Unsure of his voice, he simply nods.

Processing things as quickly as possible, she takes a deep breath, licks her lips, and swallows. Then, rather than give into her impulse to pace, she crosses the small distance between them, and takes one of his hands in both of hers. The slight contact manages to reassure him, even if only slightly. Instinctively, he takes his other hand from his pocket, and runs it down her upper arm to her elbow.

Rubbing her thumbs across his fingers, she gently asks, "Are you sure?"

He sighs, and then honestly replies, "No. Not entirely."

"But you'd like us to try?"

"…I would." Moving his hand from her arm to the loose waves flowing over her shoulder, he goes on, "But if you don't want to, or if you don't think we're ready, or if you'd rather we wait, then -"

"- Stop talking, Clark," she softly interrupts, spreading the palm and fingers of one of her hands against the smooth material covering his chest. "We can try."

"…Are you sure?"

Despite the gravity of their moment, she can't help giggling as she drapes both of her arms around his neck, and asks, "Do you want me to say no?"

"I don't want you to think you have to say yes."

"When have you ever been able to make up my mind for me?"

"Never," he confirms, resting his hands on her waist. "But that's not the point."

"What is the point?"

Firmly, he insists, "That this is as much your decision as mine. And that if for any reason or for no reason at all, you don't think we should, then we won't."

"You are unreal."

"Lois -"

"- I mean it," she grins, both amused and impressed by his steadfast gentility. "The things you say sometimes…just…wow. Who talks like that?"

"I can't believe you're joking right now."

"What? I'm absolutely serious," she tries to say with a straight face. But, despite her mostly insincere efforts, she begins giggling all over again, and can't help adding, "Just know that if we kill you, then I'm keeping your apartment - and probably your PlayStation too."

"You're laughing, but that's exactly the kinda thing I'm talking about. If you're worried, then -"

"- Just because I care about your health doesn't mean that I wouldn't like us to try."

"So you are worried?" he asks, with lines of anxiety creasing his forehead.

Trying for it as much as possible, she manages to inject a small degree of earnestness to her voice as she honestly replies, "I'm not worried so much as aware. But either way, I already gave you my answer. Do you need me to say it in alien?"

"Lois -"

"- Clark," she interrupts in an exaggeratedly deep and dour tone, mocking him for his solemnity.

In response, he chuckles a bit and circles his arms around her back. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"Mm-hmm. But I'm totally worth it, aren't I?"

"Most days."

His taunt earns him an expression of feigned shock and incredulity, and a solid punch to his shoulder. After absorbing her blow, he wraps his arms farther around her and tilts his head down to tickle her nose with his. She smiles at his gesture, threading her hands into his hair and holding his brow to hers. As she strokes his locks and he rubs her back, they each close their eyes, letting the stillness around them fill with the significance of their intentions. Both hopeful, but neither certain, they sense one another's conflicting emotions, and their eyes meet. Without a word, they share a moment of complete understanding, acknowledging their concerns and embracing their desires. And then, as friends in need of the comfort only each other can give, they close the small space between them, and share the simple consolation of a promising kiss.

...


	13. Chapter 13

_[Rating: PG-13 - For occasional mild profanity, for suggestive language and dialogue, and for sensuality.]_

**CHAPTER 13**

Focusing on the frayed end of a thin wick, he watches as the tiny fibers smolder underneath the heat of his gaze, and then ignite with a sudden burst of warm light. Then, in deference to the element so vital to his existence, he stands perfectly still, waiting for the flickering flame to settle, and for its surrounding glow to calm.

When he's convinced that the flat, circular candle in his hand is sure to not go out again, he gently sets it amongst the many others on the window seat in his new bedroom. Standing in a corner where one end of the seat meets an adjacent wall, he looks down the expanse of white tealights spaced out in several even rows and columns. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so precise in situating them, but, given how long she's been sequestered in the adjoining bathroom, he's had the time to try out a few different variations.

For the third time, he walks over to the main light switch, turns back toward the space he's in, and pulls down the toggle. As the overhead lights cut off and their stiff, lifeless fluorescence instantly retreats, the soft, swaying glow from the candles spread throughout the room imbues the space, giving it an entirely different character. He smiles, satisfied that the results of his efforts are worthy enough of the woman for whom they are intended.

When he's finished scrutinizing the various aspects of his setting, he lets his eyes wander to the bathroom door on the other side of the room. After they withdrew from the kiss that sealed their hopes for the night, she quickly showed him the remaining features of the master bedroom, dragged him back into and through the main area of his new home, and then opened the front door and shoved him, keys in hand, out into the hallway. Before he could ask what he did wrong, she simply explained that she needed to grab a few things that were none of his business out of the closet in the spare bedroom, and instructed him to get lost for at least five minutes. Obliged to give her her space, he used the time to hurry back to her apartment and to retrieve the necessary items for their picnic. When he returned a short while later, she was already hidden away in the bathroom. He asked her if he could get her anything, to which she curtly responded in the negative, and added that she was just changing her clothes and washing her face. But that was nearly an hour ago. And she hasn't said a word since.

At first, he supposed that she could hear him fussing about and thus hadn't reappeared because she assumed he wasn't ready. So after removing what he decided to be an appropriate amount of his own outfit, speeding through the rest of his initial arrangements, and setting everything extraneous in the bedroom's walk-in closet, he forced himself to stay put for long enough to dispel her doubts. To his confusion, though, she still didn't emerge. Perhaps she was having trouble getting out of the dress that he had no idea as to how she got into in the first place, he guessed. But when he considered checking on her again, it occurred to him that it'd be better to let her ask for help, should she need it, lest he give the impression of rushing her.

Content to wait forever, he carefully went about improving the things of which he didn't feel certain: The angle of the bouquet on the nightstand next to her side of what he warmly thought of as their bed. How much of the covers to turn down and how far. Which pillows to leave on the bed, and which to move to the pallet he made on the floor with the extra blankets that he brought from her apartment.

After finishing his second attempt, he returned his attention to his appearance. Looking around, he quickly realized that though the room being only furnished with the bed and its adornments had the advantage of focusing his purpose, the absence of a mirror did indeed pose a minor obstacle. And so, despite his reluctance to leave, he sped his way to the closet in the other bedroom, quickly found the large bag with many of their things in it, and took what he needed into the spare bathroom. His hands and feet, he determined, were perfectly well-groomed, being that she insisted upon doing his nails after she did her own the night before. His hair, however, was a trickier matter. While keeping an ear out for the bathroom door in the master bedroom, he spent a long while fretting over which of his two very different primary styles she'd prefer. In the end, he settled on a combination of both, combing his locks back off of his face, but leaving them looser than he would if he were preparing to appear as his new self.

With his hair finished to his satisfaction, he checked his teeth, breath, skin, and overall scent. After which, he picked a few imaginary pieces of lint off of the fabric covering his lower body, did a swift turn before the mirror above the sink, and, having concluded that he passed inspection, put away his toiletry kit and returned to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

As he looked around the room a third time and strained to identify something else to change around, his anxieties began to surface. The fears of falling short, of failing to follow through, of finding himself once again beset by panic - every one of his causes for concern tightened the grip of apprehension in his chest and throat. And for a moment, he entertained notions of denial and delay. But the events of the day had made him sensible as to the consequences of his inertia. To resist her, to resist what he feels for and with her, means to suffer the wrath of an inferno for which he has absolutely no defense. Thus, determined to move forward, he took a deep breath, and then busied himself with rearranging the candles resting on the window seat.

When he finished, he turned to observe the improved display. But, in doing so, the slight draft he created extinguished one of the flames. With excessive care, he picked up the tealight and reignited it with his gaze. As he watched the tiny light in his hand find its peace in his presence, he wondered at the unique ability of the far greater power of which that glimmer only signified to affect changes that are, unlike those brought about by every other element, on so fundamental a level as to be immutable. Perhaps he'd never fully understand it. But then, he doesn't have to. Because, as he once again learned as he slept in her arms a few hours ago, all he need do is embrace the ways in which its influence always has and always will transform and sustain him - no matter where or in whom it manifests.

With nothing left to do but wait, he leaves the wall opposite the bathroom, ambles over to the head of the bed, and reaches forward to lightly smooth out a wrinkle in her pillow. Since first resting a hand on the duvet over an hour ago, he hasn't had much contact with their first and most meaningful possession. Even in turning down the flat sheets and comforter, and in removing the decorative pillows, he made a point of touching what he felt to be a sacrosanct space as little as possible. His admission into it, he reverentially resolved, would have to be earned. But until she appears, he can offer no such testament to that which merits him sharing a bed, a future, with her.

Just as his thoughts turn to how much he's beginning to miss her, he hears her voice call out to him from behind the bathroom door.

"Clark?"

Startled, he nearly jumps back from the bed, and, after clearing his throat, quickly replies, "Yes?"

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," he defensively insists, taking her question as an accusation of some kind. When she doesn't respond, though, he realizes that he may have made a mistake. Easing his tone, he asks, "Are you alright?"

"Yes."

"Do you need anything?"

"No."

"…Okay." Her responses, clipped and uninformative, confound him. And whatever her aim is in speaking to him after having not done so for so long, he cannot make it out. What he can discern, though, is the slight tension in her voice.

As their exchange lulls, it occurs to him that perhaps she hasn't felt as comfortable with their prolonged silence as he has. Perhaps he should've spoken up by now. Perhaps the space he tried to give her has only made her feel detached, isolated from him. Hastily, he tries to think of some sort of gambit, of some sort of way of reassuring her. But before he can attempt to do so, she breaks in again.

"I probably shouldn't have gone with the corseted dress."

Confused by her non sequitur, he only manages, "Why?"

"It was tighter than I realized."

"…Oh."

"I'm saying that it left a lot of lines on me. And I've been waiting for them to go away."

She's exaggerating, he immediately realizes. Human skin may not be as resilient as his, but it certainly doesn't take an hour to recover from the kinds of marks to which she's alluding. But then, she must know that he knows that. Between his training and his practical experiences, it'd be impossible for him to not. Which, he concludes, must mean that she simply wants him to go along with her lie, probably as a way of sparing them both the embarrassment of addressing their very long silence. Taking her cue, he asks, "Are they still there?"

"Sort of."

Though recognizing her lie for what it is, he nonetheless tries to engage her further. "Do they hurt? Can I do anything?" he offers, as he walks around the side of the bed, lifts off of the floor several inches so as to not disturb the wide space between the bench and the window seat, and slowly approaches the bathroom door.

"No, thanks."

"But they do hurt?"

"Not anymore. Just a little at first, when I was loosening the strings. It was kinda like my whole body had just gotten out of a vise, and it needed to inhale, but the first deep breath stung a bit. Does that make sense?"

He smiles, appreciating that ever since he first began explaining his abilities to her as his former, anonymous self, she's never taken for granted that he's experienced the kinds of aches and irritations that she has in the same way or to the same extent. "Yeah, it does," he replies, remembering the crush as he, already depleted from fighting, forced a nemesis several miles beneath the earth's surface. "I'm sorry you were uncomfortable."

"It's no biggie. I mean, it's not like I couldn't breathe. Besides, beauty is pain."

Encouraged by her more relaxed tone, he edges, "It doesn't have to be with me, you know. I always think you look incredible. It doesn't matter what you're wearing."

"You have to say that."

He alights upon the floor a few steps away from the door, letting her hear his nearness, but making a point of not bearing down on her. "Even if I did, which I don't, I'd still mean it."

"You don't know how to turn it off, do you?"

"Look who's talking."

At the sound of his reply, he hears her quietly laugh and then begin moving around for what he realizes is the first time in a long while.

"You can come in if you want. The door's not locked."

Of course it isn't, he thinks, smiling to himself. Reflecting on their day, he realizes that even during the two other times that she shut herself away from him, the spaces in which she was situated were as accessible as the one before him at present. He didn't hear a latch slide back just before she confronted him in the hallway of her apartment, and he didn't turn the knob to her bathroom door only to find it fixed. No matter how private a moment she was having, whether while crying into tattered tissues or soaking in a spacious tub, she never barred him completely. He wonders for a moment whether she's aware of that particular habit. Probably so, he decides. And even though he can't imagine himself ever barging in on her in the same unannounced, unabashed manner that she often does with him, he finds the notions that she leaves him the choice to do so and that she trusts him to know when he shouldn't as reassuring as he finds every other hint at how liberal she wants and allows him to be with her.

Taking a step closer to the door, he considers the genuineness of her offer - whether she'd really like to see him, or she simply wishes him to feel welcome. But before making a decision, he checks, "Are you decent?"

"Not exactly."

"What does that mean?" he asks, listening to her soft footfalls as she shuffles around inside the bathroom, and to the rustling of what he supposes are clothing fabrics as she fusses with them.

"It means that I don't think we have the same definition for that word."

"Are you saying that I actually have one and you don't?"

"Smart-ass."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes."

With a small laugh, he replies, "Well, going by the only definition between the two of us, are you decent?"

"Not yet."

"Oh." Looking over his shoulder at everything in the room behind him, he, for the sake of presentation, quickly decides against leaving. "I think I'll stay out here."

"Okay. I'll be done in a minute."

"That's fine," he replies. Then, by way of reassurance, he adds, "Just take your time, Lois. There's absolutely no rush."

Upon hearing her chuckle as she mutters something to herself about his ridiculous sense of chivalry, he smiles, and turns away from the bathroom door. With the sounds of her movements in his ears, he makes his way over to the nightstand on the right side of the bed. Reaching a hand into the bouquet resting on the mahogany surface of the small table, he carefully pulls a single flower from amongst the many others, and then readjusts the arrangement a final time. When he's finished, he steps back to check his work, and, content with the display, turns his attention to where to position himself. The other side of the bed won't do, he reasons, as he'd largely be obscured from her view. Wanting to be neither too far from her nor too near, he gauges the distances from the bathroom door to the various areas on the side of the bed just opposite it. Choosing the farthest remove, he walks to the post at the corner of the footboard, and runs the fingers of his empty hand through his hair and looks down his body to re-inspect himself along the way.

After a short while spent standing in place, doing his utmost to remain as composed as possible, he hears her movements settle and sees the fluorescence under the door of the bathroom go out. Watching the knob begin to turn and then seeing the door slowly swing back and open, he quickly straightens his posture and clears his throat. As she appears, stepping out of the darkness of the bathroom and into the light of the bedroom, his breath catches and his heart wavers. He'd both hoped and expected to see her once again nestled in her preferred sleepwear: one of his flannel shirts and a pair of her own boxers or pajama pants. But now, such a notion seems narrow - perhaps even naïve - compared to the arresting sight of her swathed in nothing but red.

Disbelieving, he lowers his gaze to the floor, where the long, abundant fabric gathers at her feet, creating a slight train behind her. Still doubting the reality of the vision before him, he trails his eyes up the lithe material draped around and held to her by her mostly covered, folded arms, and pauses where the tops of her bare shoulders peak out and her hair, no longer partially pinned, hangs loosely down her back and over her chest. A subtle movement of hers as she turns to close the door behind her reanimates him, and he follows the candlelight playing across her skin along her neck and up to the curves of her face, stripped of every artificial adornment except for the light moisturizer on her lips.

Perfect.

If only there were more words for it, he'd tell her every single one. But at present, having only just remembered to breathe, he's lost all sense of eloquence. Knowing he should at least say something, though, even if it limits his wonder and appreciation to a single word, he blinks a few times and swallows, gathering himself. But just as he begins to speak, he sees her turn her head back toward him, and he immediately recognizes her uneasy expression.

"What did you do to your room?"

Her question, absent any humor or sarcasm, sends him reeling. "Um… I, uh… I just…"

As he grasps for an appropriate response, she takes her eyes from his and runs them back over their surroundings. While unsurprised to find the wine, chocolates, and fruit for their picnic resting on the bench at the foot of the bed, and the pallet made up in the open space between the bench and the window seat, she hadn't expected the remaining aspects of a setting even more elaborate than one with which he presented her for his reveal. Looking around the room, she observes the votive candles lying in tall, deep-set holders lining the carpet along the walls, the tealights arranged on the window seat, and the floating candles drifting in clear basins on each of the nightstands. What she finds even more affecting, though, are the orange and yellow rose petals strewn across every surface except for the bed. Were it not for him choosing the same color scheme for his setting three months ago, she'd question the meaning of the present display. But, already appreciating the sentiment conveyed by his gesture, she has no need for the words she's not even sure she could manage.

Watching the fabric around her pull closer to her body as she tightens the fold of her arms, he begins to second-guess his choices. After all, his intention was to impress, not to overwhelm. Having regretfully accomplished the latter, he instinctively steps toward her, offering, "Lois, I didn't mean to -"

"- Seriously?" she cuts in, watching him cautiously approach her. "You're gonna apologize for this?"

"If I need to, then yes."

"Who said you needed to?"

"Well, you don't seem to like it."

"I didn't say that." As he stops a stride or two away from her, she tilts her head to one side and then to the other, looking around and past him. "It's just… I mean, you think I'm the one who tends to go overboard, and… Well, you've kinda redefined the word here." Growing all the more doubtful, he starts to offer some kind of explanation, but before he can, she asks, "Were you gonna do this to my apartment?"

"…I guess."

"Where were you gonna put all of it?"

"I hadn't worked that out yet," he admits. As her eyes continue peering everywhere but directly in front of her at him, he starts to ramble, "Look, Lois, I can get rid of some of this if you want. Or I can get rid of all of it. I just wanted tonight to be different. Special, you know. And I figured - Well, never mind what I figured. My point is just that if this doesn't feel right to you, then I'll change it. Okay? Whatever you want is exactly what I'll do. So just tell me. Name it. Anything at all. Big or -"

"- I want you to stop talking for sixty seconds."

"Why?" he worries, his face falling. "Are you mad at me?"

"No."

"Then why don't you want me to -"

"- Shut up, Clark," she insists, finding his gaze and looking sternly at him.

Heeding her warning, he takes his eyes from hers, steps off to the side a bit, and remains quiet.

With him out of her line-of-sight, she once again tries to adjust to the atmosphere. Having not expected the door through which she passed to transport her into an environment so drastically different from the one in which she sat for most of the last hour, she can't help feeling as taken aback by the contrast of the two spaces, as by the meaning underpinning the tender and enchanting world that he's created. The fold of the blankets, the fluff of the pillows, the arrangement of the various foods - every one of his meticulous efforts captures her notice, and conveys to her his affections without a word. Licking and then biting her lower lip, she wishes she weren't as unsettled - possibly even intimidated - as she is, especially given her awareness that any nervousness of hers will only exacerbate his.

After taking a deep breath in the hopes of putting her mind more at ease, she peers at him out of the corner of her eye. With him looking anywhere but in her direction, she takes the opportunity to run her gaze over his figure - ever constant in its vibrancy and luster.

Notwithstanding the unusual circumstances under which they first met, she knew there was something different about him right from the start. His skin, always bright and always unblemished, belied the lifetime he'd spent doing manual labor on his family's farm. Initially, she dismissed it as the result of an active lifestyle, good genes, and dumb luck. As she grew closer to him over the years, though, she occasionally entertained the notion that his flawless looks were simply the physical manifestation of his limitless generosity and his unfailing compassion. But now, even after having learned the truth of the source of his vigor and strength, she's completely convinced that his appearance has more to do with his character than anything else.

Her thoughts bring a slight smile to her face in spite of her anxieties - as does the charm of him standing silently beside her, terrified that she'll say something cynical or disapproving. Shifting the fabric in one of her hands into the grasp of the other, she continues holding the enveloping material to her as she reaches outside of it.

At the feeling of the cloth covering the side of his leg moving a bit, he looks down to find her lightly running her fingers over the cotton.

"I like these," she tells him, admiring the dark purple of his only piece of clothing. "The color looks good on you."

Taking her compliment as an indication that he's finally allowed to speak, he quietly replies, "Thanks." As he watches her let go of the garment, though, he realizes that he hasn't yet managed to express how he feels about any aspect of her appearance.

But just as he parts his lips to enunciate, she turns away from him, and asks, "Are those for me?"

Seeing that she's referring to the bouquet of red-tipped yellow roses resting on one of the nightstands, he suddenly remembers the flower in his hand. "Yeah, they are," he quickly replies, lifting the rose from his side and awkwardly holding it out to her.

"They're beautiful," she says, finding his gaze and grasping the long stem in his hand. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he offers with a timid smile.

With both of his hands now empty, it occurs to him that perhaps kissing her cheek would be appropriate. But he then realizes that she didn't graze his fingers as she usually does when she takes something from him. Uncertain as to whether her avoidance was intentional, he discovers his answer in studying her bearing and finding her stiff. Attempting to veil his discouragement, he feigns cheerfulness as he asks, "Can I fix you something to eat?"

"Um…" she contemplates, looking over at the platter of chocolates and fruits lying atop a tray of ice. "I don't think so. I'm not all that hungry."

Too thrown by her response to stop himself, he raises his eyebrows a little, both in question and in confusion. Apart from when she's sleepy or sick, he's not quite sure that he's ever heard her turn down visually appealing food - whether or not she's already sated. In fact, they'd only been together a couple of weeks when he determined to make a point of always keeping snacks around for her. Whether dried fruit in his desk for when they're at the office, granola bars in his jacket pockets for when they're out investigating, or mixed nuts in his truck for when they're making the long drive out of or back into the city, he's taken to storing food everywhere and for every occasion, lest he ever be caught unprepared when she starts to fidget and complain from want of something to consume. And so, that he's somehow managed to destroy something as constant about her and as indicative of her mood as her appetite tells him exactly how much he's put her off.

But even as he internally berates himself, he tries to not let his bearing betray anything further. Forcing a smile, he considers his other options. The massage is out of the question, he decides, given his certainty that he shouldn't try touching her until she relaxes. But reading to her probably won't help matters, either. She probably just needs something to do, he figures. And though he hadn't planned on it, he could always go grab their video game handhelds.

"But maybe you could eat something?"

"What?" he asks, having been too lost to his own thoughts to make out her suggestion.

Trying to offer him something with which to occupy himself while she tries to get her bearings, she repeats, "Maybe you could eat something?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's fine," he replies, eager to grant any wish she may have at the moment. "Where, uh… Where do you wanna sit?"

"Wherever."

Her reply, spoken in a less than genuine tone, communicates to him her real answer, which is that anywhere but the bed will do. Taking her hint, he nods, looks around the room, and settles upon as noncommittal a space as possible.

In silence, she follows behind him as he leads them across the petal-strewn carpet and around the corner of the pallet. With tense, stilted movements, he slides the towels and the bottle of massage oil down to the far end of the long bench, and replaces part of the now-empty area with one of the pillows he previously repositioned on the floor. After smoothing out the makeshift cushion, he gestures toward it, and she thanks him and takes a seat on it.

With her situated, he goes about fixing himself a plate. Having picked up one of the round, flat dishes from the stack of two or three others near her, he scoops a couple spoonfuls of whipped dark chocolate ganache onto it, and then fills the rest of the plate with mixed berries, a few different kinds of truffles, and some chocolate-covered pretzels and almonds. After which, he reaches into an ice bucket, picks up the wine bottle and then a large water bottle, and pours himself a glass of each liquid. When he's done, he moves everything except for the massage items, his foods and drinks, a utensil, and a cloth napkin to the floor next to the pallet.

Mindful of not sitting as close to her as he usually does, he picks a spot a few arm's lengths away from her, and takes a seat. As he settles in, draping his napkin across his thigh and picking up his fork, she watches the defined muscles in his arm and down the side of his torso contract and relax from his slight motions. Reflexively, she pulls her lower lip into her mouth, and bites down on it. When he looks over at her, though, he takes notice of her readjusting her arms and shifting around a bit, and thus takes her chewing her lip as a sign of discomfort.

"Are you okay?" he checks.

Releasing the hold of her teeth, she clears her throat, and replies, "Mm-hmm."

He lowers his eyes to her mouth, watching the blood beneath her skin rush back into her lip. The sight sends a faint tremor down his chest and into his belly, and it's all he can do to keep himself from setting his plate aside and reaching out for her. But he knows that he shouldn't. Not until he's confident that he's allowed and that she wants him to.

Swallowing, he lifts his eyes, only to find her looking right back at him. Without having to wonder, he's certain that she sees what his reaction has been. But, rather than turn away, he doesn't try to hide it. She deserves to know, he tells himself.

As she watches him watch her, with his gaze focused and dark, a flush of warm tingles run down her arms and legs. He never lets her see his longing so open and unguarded - at least not until he's too wrapped up in her to resist doing so. He must have meant what he said not long ago, she muses: He does want tonight to be different.

Heartened by both his honesty and his resolve, she gives him a slight smile of understanding, and then takes her eyes from his. He watches her exhale, relaxing enough to lean back against the footboard and to drop the fold of her arms from her chest to her stomach. Glad to know he's helping, he smiles to himself, and returns his attention to his food.

Gazing out in front of her, she begins to count the tealights on the window seat as she traces her fingers over the top of the rose in her hand. He looks over at her every now and again as he quietly eats a few bites of fruit and sips his water. Seeing her easy breaths and her tranquil features, he assumes that she, knowing where he is and how he's feeling, is more comfortable in their present silence than she was in their previous hour-long one. And so, he leaves her to her thoughts.

After a few minutes with nothing filling the air but the soft sounds of the cutlery against his plate and his glass goblet against the wooden bench, she lifts her hand to her hair to run a finger along her bang, and starts to cross her legs. Hearing her shift, he glances in her direction again, and stops chewing as he glimpses the fabric covering her lower body slightly falling away, revealing every inch of the bare skin beneath her knees.

Gradually, he trails his eyes from the tips of her toes, across her ankles, along her calves, and up to the bottoms of her mostly concealed thighs. As he, transfixed as much by what he can see as by that which is between him and what he can't, swallows his bite, he realizes that she's draped her leg furthest from him over the one nearest to him. Recognizing her subtle, though nonetheless inviting, gesture, he regards her profile and contemplates a response.

After a brief pause, he gently reintroduces his voice to the air around them, asking, "Are you warm enough?"

Amused by his delicacy, she lets out a low chuckle from deep in her throat, and peers down at her legs as she slowly rubs her dangling ankle up and then back down the side of her other calf.

His stomach tightens a bit at her enticing, unspoken reply. And, without thinking, he licks his lips.

Finally turning her head back toward him, she finds his gaze, as entranced as it was when she first walked out of the bathroom, lingering over the fabric resting against the outline of her hip.

With a smirk in her voice, she comforts, "I'm just borrowing it, Clark."

His eyes still trailing over the smooth lines and full folds of the fabric surrounding her, he clears his throat, and then replies, "I have extras. You can keep it if you want."

"In case I ever decide to wear it again?"

Her question, as much of a promise as a taunt, sends another tremor through him. Instinctively, he shifts toward her a bit, only realizing his gravitation and halting his progress when his foot brushes one of the pillows at the edge of the pallet. Holding still, he raises his eyes to hers, and finds her gazing both tenderly and teasingly back at him.

"I'd rather you hang onto it," she tells him, choosing to not remark on how much closer to her he obviously wants to be.

Disappointed, he asks, "Why?"

"So that whenever I have to watch you wrap it around some damsel who you know is faking a chill just to get your attention and a once-in-a-lifetime flight to a hospital, I'll be able to keep my cool by reminding myself that no one gets as close to it or you as I do."

Pleased by her logic, he smiles in agreement. With her responses, both spoken and unspoken, growing all the more indicative of her usual demeanor, he feels encouraged enough to mention what he's been meaning to tell her. "You know, Lois," he begins, "I've sort of seen this before."

"Seen what?"

"You. In that," he says, briefly glancing down at the material around her.

"When?"

"This morning. Before you woke me up."

"Really?" she asks, a full grin blooming across her face as she remembers the conversation they had while they bathed together. "This was your wish?"

"Yes."

She lightly laughs, and then bites her lip to contain her excitement. As a thought occurs to her, though, she checks, "But how do you know you didn't just get some kinda vibe from me, and what you really saw was the future? Maybe I'm just getting predictable."

"Not possible. The last thing you've ever been or could ever be is predictable," he replies. "That's how I know."

"Are you just saying that?"

"I'm not." As she generously smiles upon hearing his assurance, he takes a long breath and a longer pause to find the words to approximate how he feels. "Lois, you look…" he tries, before trailing off. Uncertain of how best to phrase what he wants to convey, he sighs, shakes his head at himself, and settles upon the only characterization of which he can conceive: "You look like a dream."

His sentiment, simple and sincere, earns a look of thorough appreciation from her, brightening her features even further. Happy to have struck the right note, he exhales in relief and feels himself warm as he watches her uncross her legs, and begin to slide toward him.

She stops a couple inches short of where he's seated, and he starts to put his plate down on the opposite side of him, but he sees her reaching toward it. He follows her movements as she dips the index finger of her free hand into the ganache he's yet to try. After she's gathered a bit of it, she lifts her hand, offering the confection to him.

Taking her gesture as the opportunity it is, he holds her gaze and eases his mouth open, letting her slip her fingertip just inside. He watches the hoods of her eyes lower a bit and he feels her pulse quicken as he presses his tongue to her slender digit and softly slides along it, clearing away the creamy dessert. His own heart rate increases as he appreciates both the first touch and the first taste he's had of her in far too long. As she slowly withdraws her finger, wavering for a moment at the sensation of his lips against her skin, she quietly asks, "How is it?"

After spreading the treat around his palate and then swallowing it, he comments on more than just the chocolate as he replies, "It's delicious."

"Describe it."

He momentarily lowers his gaze to her legs as she crosses them again, rubbing her calf down the side of his knee in the process. The fork on his plate shudders a bit as his hand trembles from her light touch. "It's, uh…" he considers, as he struggles to maintain his composure. "It's light, but still really rich. Not too sweet. It's got a little bite to it, I guess." As he sees her body begin leaning toward his, he looks up from her thigh to find her eyes.

"What do I taste like?"

His groin tightens at the low timbre of her voice, the provocativeness of her question, and the nearness of her mouth to his. Licking his lips in anticipation, he doesn't hesitate to respond, "Cherry. And vanilla."

"You know that's probably just your imagination, right?" she whispers, closing the small distance between them until he can feel her breath against his lips.

His eyes fixed on the moist, ruddy curves of her mouth, he replies, "That doesn't make it any less real to me."

"Such a smooth-talker."

Unable to suffer the wait any longer, he tilts his head down a bit to capture her lips. But, to his dismay, she moves out of his reach and gets up from her seat. He looks up at her and starts to complain, but he withholds his protest as she casually takes a pretzel from his plate, and slips it into her mouth.

As she chews, he smiles at the welcome return of her appetite, and doesn't resist as she takes the napkin from his lap and sets it aside on the bench, and then reaches for his wrist, pulls him up out of his seat, and guides him onto the pallet.

"Can I ask you something?" she says, exchanging the rose in her hand for the plate in his.

"You can ask me anything."

She smirks at his eager affirmation as she kneels onto the plush surface of blankets covered by one of the flat sheets from the bed. He follows suit, and then sits back completely when she pokes a finger into his chest. "Where do you even get the ideas for this kinda stuff?" she wonders, glancing around the room.

He shrugs, "I don't know."

Shuffling toward him and nudging his legs apart with her knees, she intuits, "That's not true."

Happy to have her near him again, he obliges her with the space she needs as she takes a seat, positioning herself sideways, leaning back against the inside of his propped-up knee, and draping her legs over his outstretched one. As she finishes settling in, he reluctantly answers, "From books, mostly."

Suspicious, she slowly asks, "What books?"

"The, uh… The ones you keep in your candy drawer at work."

"The _romance_ novels?" she snickers, picking up an almond and sliding it past his lips. "You've been studying chick lit when I haven't been looking?"

Concerning himself more with her proximity than her retort, he brushes the backs of his fingers along the fabric covering her arm, and muffles through his bite, "I guess."

"Well, for the record: I read those for the style, not the content. So whenever Perry sticks me some snore of an assignment, I can just make the article sound more colorful to get people to actually read it. It's an old trick from my days at the _Inquisitor_."

"Oh," he absently replies, trailing his finger along the uppermost edges of the fabric, where it meets her shoulder and her chest.

She observes his face, watching his eyes following his wandering touch, and she warms at the thought of how much he's enjoying her choice of ensemble. As she offers him a pretzel, it occurs to her, "You know, Clark, I read all kinds of fiction. Why doesn't it look like the Great Hall at Hogwarts in here?"

"Because I figured that maybe you were just embarrassed by liking the romantic ones. And I wanted to surprise you."

"Seriously? I'm capable of a lot of things, but I don't think being embarrassed makes the list."

"Fair point," he concedes, crunching on the pretzel. "But look at it this way: The colors in here are pretty close to Gryffindor's."

Impressed by his familiarity with the book and film series that he only tolerates for her sake, she playfully bumps his stomach with her knee, and ribs, "Nobody likes a know-it-all."

He smiles at her approval and forgoes a reply.

Turning her attention to his plate, she disregards the fork, and uses her hand to pick up a strawberry, swirl it into the ganache, and then take a bite. "Mmm," she delightfully intones upon first tasting the smooth texture and luscious flavor. "Totally worth the trip."

He gently strokes her hair and remains quiet, contentedly watching and listening to her as she spends the next few minutes trying out the other various items on the plate, and complimenting his choices as she goes. As she bites into her second truffle, he reaches behind him to grasp the glass of wine on the bench. When he holds it out for her, though, she looks at him skeptically.

"What?" he asks. "It's Pinot Noir. It's your favorite."

She giggles at his obliviousness and feeds him the other half of the round treat. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"

"Of course not," he quickly denies, mumbling through his morsel. But as she continues laughing at him, he realizes his miscue. "Oh. No, I completely forgot. It's just that all the stuff I've read online and all the people I talked to said that red wine goes well with chocolate and fruit, and I didn't originally plan on us, well -"

"- Wait. You've been doing research? Why?" she grins, not bothering to contain her amusement.

"Why else? For you. I finally figured out how to keep the cold out of the fortress, so I thought we could spend some time there as kind of a retreat after things settled down."

"With your parents present?"

"It doesn't work like that. They're not around unless me or someone I trust calls for them."

"So you figured you'd get me liquored up while we're all alone in the middle of the arctic?" she teases. "That's kinda sleazy, Smallville."

"I just told you that I didn't think we'd be -"

"- I mean, for as often as I let you drag me away from my desk and into the copy room, you really shouldn't feel the need to grease the wheels."

"You know I'd never do something like -"

"- But I guess you did at least put some thought into it. How much research are we talking?"

"Asks the woman who made pages and pages of notes for my wardrobe."

"Touché," she grants, plucking the glass from his grasp. For his benefit, she swirls the cool liquid around in the wide bowl, inhales the bouquet, and then takes a sip. "Nice choice," she congratulates, handing the glass back to him. "But that's as much as those of us with non-super-powered metabolisms should have tonight."

In response to her remark, he lifts the rim to his lips, and swallows the rest of the wine in one long gulp.

"Smart-ass," she chuckles, shaking her head at him. "Never mind using the blue-k for a sparring match. We're gonna hole up one night with as much alcohol as possible, and I'm gonna drink you under the table."

"And what makes you think I can't hold my own?" he counters, setting the glass aside. "I am bigger than you."

"Oh, please. On an equal playing field, your tolerance doesn't stand a chance against mine. I was playing beer pong with commandos before you were even born."

"How many times do I have to remind you that you're not that much older than me?"

"A margin is a margin is a margin. And as your wiser and more experienced elder, I'm telling you that you can't beat me." Leaning around to the side of his face, she presses a light kiss to his cheek, teasing, "But don't worry. I'll nurse you through your hangover."

"I'll toss the blue-k before I give you the satisfaction."

With an impish tone, she laughs, and then tilts her head back a little farther to whisper, "You sure you wouldn't rather I take care of you?"

He closes his eyes as the vibrations in her voice travel into his ear, and amplify as they make their way down through his torso and into his core.

She feels his inner thighs tremble and she feels him tense a little against the side of her hip. Persisting, she brushes her lips across the shell of his ear, and purrs, "Answer my question."

"Lois…"

"Yes or no?" she asks, skimming the tip of her tongue behind his lobe.

His skin beginning to tingle and his need for her beginning to mount, he slides his hand from her shoulder around to her cheek, and turns his head toward her. As he reaches for her lips, though, she pulls away once more. Leaving his disappointment plainly evident on his face, he questions her with his perplexed gaze.

"You never gave me an answer," she explains, picking up a raspberry and placing it in his agape mouth.

As she returns to munching on the food in front of her, he chews over both his bite and her behaviors. Every sign of her initial discomfort has since dissipated - of that, he's sure. But despite her being back to her usual self, he can discern something different, something more, to her demeanor. Playful and yet pointed, her actions seem calculated to incite, but not to insist - almost as if she's resolved upon restraint, he determines. If such is the case, though, he can certainly imagine why, as theirs is still a precarious situation.

Peering down at the material on which she's yet to release her hold, he begins to appreciate her reluctance to do much more than encourage him, and her determination to allow him the choice of how far to progress their evening. But, no matter what her concerns for him may be, he doesn't want out of what they've begun, and he doesn't want her denying herself anything - especially him. And that, he tells himself, she deserves to know.

As he swallows his bit of fruit, he contemplates an approach. Glancing around them, he locates the small bottle of massage oil, and then reaches onto the bench to pick it up with his empty hand. Clearing his throat, he starts to make his offer, but she sets his plate down on her legs and takes the oil from him. Baffled, he watches as she unscrews the top, and then breathes in the scent of its contents.

Recognizing the similar notes to her bubble bath, she smirks, "That smells familiar."

"I thought you'd like it."

"I do," she assures him, closing the bottle and handing it back to him. "But I bet it tastes terrible."

Grasping her meaning, he accepts the oil from her and shakes his head at his oversight. "I didn't think of that."

"Which is what you have me for," she casually replies, picking up the plate from her lap and leaning farther back against his knee.

As she scoops up more of the ganache with one of the pretzels, he sets the bottle back on the bench and considers a less indirect tack. After giving the matter a few more moments of thought, he turns around to rest the rose still in his hand next to the oil, and to grasp the goblet of water. When she's finished swallowing her bite, he offers her the glass, which she gratefully accepts.

With his eyes on her face, he lowers the hand with which he held the goblet to the inside of her knee, just where the wrap of fabric separates. As his fingertips, still chilled from the glass containing the icy liquid, make contact with the especially sensitive area of her skin, she jumps a bit and shivers.

"Clark!"

Feigning confusion, he asks, "What?"

"Are you kidding me?" she complains, glancing down at her leg and then back up at him.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking." As she continues glaring at him, he spreads his hand against the offending part of her knee, and begins kneading it in slow, deep circles.

In no time at all, her indignation gives way to something else entirely, as the area beneath his palm warms, and the effects of his thoughtful touch spread down her calf, and up her inner thigh.

His expression earnest and his tone low, he asks her, "Is this better?"

Understanding him, but unsure of her voice, she intones, "Mm-hmm," as she raises the glass to her lips and draws a sip from it.

"Good."

She watches as he takes his eyes from hers and, rather than abandon her skin, curves his hand around behind her knee and gently lifts it, propping up her leg. As he runs his hand down to her ankle, she checks, "Do you wanna try anything else? Another truffle or something?"

"No, thank you," he evenly dismisses, his voice absent any lightness or humor.

Focusing more on him than on the remaining desserts in her grasp, she follows his movements as he leans forward just enough to press his lips to the side of her knee. Taking his time, he trails his kisses as far down the side of her leg as he can reach without readjusting either his position or hers, and slides his hand back and forth across her calf, lightly massaging now and then.

When he's eventually made his way back up to her knee, he reaches his hand over to her other leg, and runs a finger along the edge of the fabric covering the lower part of her thigh, and pushes it away. "Can I ask you something?" he softly asks, watching as more of her skin comes into his view.

"Sure."

"Why do you hardly ever use my new name?"

As he props up her other leg, she sets down the water and takes a moment to consider his question. "I don't know… I guess it just sounds too schmaltzy coming from me. And people don't need any more of a reason to wonder about us."

"I think you're just being paranoid," he offers, finding her gaze as he rubs her other calf.

She smiles, "Oh, really?"

"Mm-hmm."

Putting down the plate next to the glass of water, she replies, "And I suppose you also think that no one suspects your real interest in me just because you're formal with my name?"

"You worry too much," he smirks, brushing his lips across her shoulder.

"I do not. My name totally sounds like an endearment when you say it."

"Probably because that's how I mean it."

"Are you _trying_ to get us caught?"

"I can't help it," he quietly explains, pressing a single kiss to the side of her neck and then finding her gaze. "I look at you, and I still see you. It doesn't matter what I'm wearing."

Affected by his sentiment, she slightly tilts her head to the side to regard him. And after a few moments, she watches him hold still in anticipation as she slowly leans forward, and lightly touches her lips to his.

He beams at the lingering sensation of her approving gesture as she pulls away just enough to rub his nose with hers. Emboldened, he releases her calf and begins to reach into her hair and to recapture her lips. But before he can, he feels her arms lightly pushing against the circle of his, and he sees her gazing at him intently. Initially, he wonders whether he misread her, and she isn't yet open to any kind of advance. As he peers down, though, he realizes that the space she needed was for an entirely different purpose.

Rapt, he watches the fabric draped around her part down its middle as she slowly releases the fold of her arms. And when she sits up from her reclined position on his knee, he follows the material as it slides away from her shoulders and down her back, revealing the smooth, supple curves of her breasts, the taut, flat plane of her stomach, and, to his amazement, the delicate, silken lace of a pair of thong panties bearing the exact same hue as the cloth no longer surrounding her.

His breaths begin to deepen and his cheeks begin to flush as he trails his eyes over the intricate designs running across her hips and down between the juncture of her thighs. And only when he feels her hands wrapping around his back does he realize how long he's spent memorizing the sight of her before him. Gathering himself, he finally manages to sweep his gaze back up her figure and to find the satisfied expression on her face.

"I'm never wrong, am I?" she whispers, shifting closer to him as she refers to his obvious favorite of her many types of underwear.

Smirking at her remark, but deciding against a reply, he slides a hand around her back and threads the other into her hair. But as he tilts his head down, she pulls out of the reach of his lips yet again, and quirks an eyebrow at him, teasingly insisting upon an answer.

"You're never wrong, Lois," he indulges, with a mix of both sincerity and amusement. "At least not about me."

Both smiling in response to his sentiment, they lean forward until their lips meet in a long-awaited kiss. As their mouths meld, they fall into a slow and simple rhythm of soft rolls, light flicks, and gentle nips. Neither of them worried, neither of them rushed, they allow one another the thorough satisfaction of their initial moments. And though familiar, their exchange seems somehow new, teeming with the discovery and the promise of unprecedented possibility.

When, after a long, leisurely while, their touches grow deeper and more needful, he murmurs her name against her lips.

"Hmm?" she intones, though only hugging him closer and persisting in their kiss.

Loath to deny her anything, he lets them continue enjoying the ease and exhilaration of their shared sensations for some time longer. Running his fingers through her hair and his hand up and down her back, he lavishes his attention upon her, and feels her skin begin to warm as her sounds of appreciation - her whimpers and her sighs - gradually increase in volume. Nevertheless, when he eventually feels her withdraw from his lips and begin shifting her position, he lifts his heavy lids, and tries again, "Lois?"

"Yes?" she absently responds, her eyes focused on his mouth as she sits up onto her knees and turns to face him.

Instinctively, he grasps her waist to help her and closes his legs a bit to accommodate her as she scoots forward and sets one of her knees on either side of his hips. When she's nearly settled, he thoughtfully inquires, "Do you wanna ask me anything?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know. You've always got questions," he points out, as she sits back onto his thighs, drapes her arms over his shoulders, and begins leaning into him again.

"I can't think of one right now."

He reciprocates as she tilts her head down to press her lips to his, and, for quite a while, he loses his train of thought to the mesmerizing swirls of her tongue. As his body temperature begins to tic up, though, he somehow manages the presence of mind to pull back, and to interject once more. "Lois?"

Half-ignoring him as she reaches to reinitiate their kiss, she replies, "Yes?"

"Lois, please," he nearly begs, doubting whether he'd be able to keep himself from her again.

Registering his tone, she stops just short of his mouth and finally finds his gaze. Watching him catch his breath and force himself to concentrate on whatever it is that he wants to say, she leans away from him a tad, and waits.

When he's sure of his voice, he tries to be clearer than before as he asks, "Do you wanna discuss anything?"

"Like what?" she repeats, running her hands down his shoulders to his elbows.

"Anything. It doesn't matter."

Finally understanding him, she smiles a bit as she says, "Like ground rules?"

"Yeah."

"They haven't changed since this morning, right?"

"Right." Rubbing her back, he gently explains, "I just wanted us to, uh…you know…"

"…Talk?"

"Yeah."

She watches as he takes a deep breath, peers down, and apprehensively runs his gaze over her. Concerned, she slides her hands up to his cheeks and tilts his head up, asking, "What is it, Clark?"

"…You'll tell me, right?" he honestly, though tentatively, replies. "If, um… If anything feels wrong…or just not quite like you think it should…for, well…for any reason at all? You'll tell me?"

"Of course," she assures him, leaning forward to dot a few kisses to his brow. "And the same goes for you, right?"

"Yeah."

As she pulls back enough to meet his gaze, he sighs away his hesitation and peers up and into her eyes. Whatever his as-yet-unresolved doubts, he's never been more certain of both her and her belief in him. Regarding her, knowing how essential a role her compassion and her conviction have played in holding them together long enough for them to reach a point at which he once never imagined he could, he finds himself feeling exactly as he did upon first encountering her years ago:

Safe.

Thus, glowing with the sense of security that she's never ceased to inspire in him, he allows himself to embrace that which he's long been reluctant to as he threads a hand into her hair, and tilts his head up to capture her lips.

...


	14. Chapter 14

_[Rating: NC-17 - For occasional mild profanity, and for explicit depictions of sexual situations.]_

**CHAPTER 14**

She smiles into his kiss for several moments, savoring the velvety taste of the wine still tingeing his palate. Soon, though, her delight gives way to her desire, and she fully reciprocates his initially slight, but increasingly insistent touches.

His fingertips wandering across her scalp, his hand trailing along her spine, his tongue brushing against her lips - every one of his ministrations entice her longing from her mind and down through her body, manifesting it upon the lace between her thighs. Dizzying, she arches into him, wrapping her arms around his neck to keep herself balanced. In response to her unspoken appeal, he lowers the circle of his arm to her waist, and secures his hold enough to lift her slightly as he shifts out of his seated position and onto his knees. Grateful for his understanding, she maintains their kiss as he leans forward, laying her down amongst the pillows and blankets surrounding them.

As he stretches out his body next to hers, she turns onto her side and drapes one of her legs over his hip. Giving himself over to her, he follows her gestures and cues - running his hand down to her thigh when she slides her leg up to his waist, rocking against her when she presses her hips into him, seeking out her tongue when she draws his forward.

Only now, only after having spent so long suppressing or sublimating her need for him, does she begin to feel how much harder that yearning has been becoming to govern. Now, with their hopes understood and their intentions clear, she can't remember whether it was he or she who suggested them spending an extra night together, whether he woke her up in the movie theatre or she was never entirely asleep, or whether the reconnection she had in mind in them bathing together was more for his sake or for hers. In truth, all of which she can be certain is stirring from her slumber the night before just to make certain he was still there, and asking him to tell her a story just to be assured of his nearness as she drifted back off to her dreams.

The waiting, the wondering, the wishing were reaching a feverish pitch, she now understands. And while his presence has consistently managed to tame down the unruly impulses that have been mounting within her for months, the truth is that she cannot conceive of how much longer she could've endured the increasingly unbearable in-betweens - the at times brief but more often prolonged periods during which he's not around to hug, have, hold her. One day at a time, she may have told herself, though very likely with less and less success as those days wore on. And in the meantime, she'd let him believe that simply being in his company doesn't try her restraint in ways that seem in every way torturous.

Without realizing it, her musings leave her all the more open to his touch, taste, scent, and sound, and her already charged senses inflame to too keen a degree. Growing breathless as much from the overstimulation as from the budding realization of that which she's only ever imagined, she breaks their kiss, and gasps, "Clark…"

Hearing her pleading tone, he spreads his hand against her hip and nudges just enough to coax her onto her back. As she lies out underneath him, clutching at his neck to bring him with her, he covers as much of her body as he can, stills his lips against hers, and presses his thigh snugly between her legs.

Before long, his means achieve their end, dampening and calming her nerves. Listening to her breaths even out and feeling her arms around him relax, he withdraws just enough to brace himself up on his elbow and to slide a hand through her tresses to cradle her head. She warms at his thoughtful gesture, meant to prevent any discomfort she may have eventually felt in her neck, as he leaves a soft kiss to her mouth, and then pulls away to sweep his lips across her cheek.

Little by little, he makes his way along her jaw, down her neck, and across her collarbones, nuzzling and tasting her skin. Her eyes closed, she lowers her hands to the back of his shoulders, feeling the broadest part of him flex and stir with every one of his subtle movements, as he kindles her arousal into a slow burn.

"Mmh…" she sighs, basking in his tenderness and in the soothing caress of his hand running up and down her side.

As his kisses descend lower onto her shoulders and her chest, his hair skims the underside of her jaw, and she happens to open her eyes. Without him in her line-of-sight, her gaze instead meets the candlelight smoldering across the large plane of the ceiling. Taken aback by the stark reflection of the sensations flowing through her, she blinks a few times and swallows in an effort to regain her bearings. But with every part of her body and mind piqued, she's left vulnerable not only to the sight of her desire manifesting before her eyes, but once again to the other, equally affecting features of the atmosphere: The warm air drifting across and along her skin. The light scent of floral overtones mingling with waxy undertones. The saffron glow enlivening the reds, oranges, and yellows spread throughout the room.

But to her, their idyll - sumptuous, sensuous, and serene - suddenly seems too fantastic. And only intensifying her increasingly overwhelming sense of wonder is the man directly above her, entirely focused on her body's every whim and response.

Never before has she felt such a palpable, unrestrained tenor to his affections. Never before has she felt such steady, unmistakable purpose to his touch. But more than that, his every consideration seems nothing short of reverent. And that - the experience of being cared for, rather than consumed; of being adored, rather than devoured - is something she's never known in this context before tonight.

All at once, she feels inundated, overcome as much by the novelty of her situation as by the surreality of her surroundings, and the weight of their intentions and the enormity of her emotions begin to bear down on her. Their past, their present, their future - all of it becomes too much to fathom, let alone embrace, and her mind balks at the irreversible transformation that their relationship is on the verge of undergoing.

Closing her eyes and holding her breath, she tries to suppress the anxiety building throughout her. But, despite her efforts, her disquiet finds another vent.

"Lois?" he worries, lifting his head from her shoulder upon perceiving the sudden tremblings deep within her body. When, in response, she only pulls her arms away from him and covers her face with her hands, he grows all the more concerned, and tries again. "Lois? What's wrong?"

"I'm fine," she lies, sharply releasing her breath and then gasping.

"No, you're not. You're shaking."

"I'm fine. I'm okay."

Uncertain of what's happened, never mind what to do about it, he starts to unthread his fingers from her hair in order to hold her cheek. But before he can, she moves her hands from her face, wraps them back around his shoulders, and pulls him down. With her face buried in his neck, hidden from him, he pauses for a moment, forcing himself to remain calm, and then attempts for the third time, "Lois, what is it?"

"Please, don't hate me."

"For what?" he tenderly presses, before trying to reassure her.

"For asking."

Releasing her thigh and circling his arm around her shuddering back, he insists, "You know I could never hate you, and you know you can ask me anything." Holding her to him, he ventures, "Are you alright? Do you feel sick?"

"No."

"You're not sick? Or you're not alright?"

"I'm not sick."

"But you're not alright?"

"I don't know."

"Okay. That's okay," he cajoles. "Just tell me what's going on, and we'll figure it out."

"…You'd never hurt me, right?"

Her whispered reply sinks his stomach and knots his chest. Not once during and not once since their first open dialogue about their physical relationship has she articulated any doubt in its regard. Where he's been conflicted, she's been confident. Thus, that she may now be qualifying the absolute certainty that she's maintained up until this point, that she may now feel anything less than safe in his arms, trusting of his touch, devastates him.

Still, out of respect for her misgivings, he starts to let her go. When she only tightens the clinch of her arms, though, he stops himself. Given her reaction and given his own wish of having heard her incorrectly, he endeavors to fight his initial supposition. Swallowing the knot in his throat, he steadies his voice and braces himself, before quietly asking, "What do you mean?"

"You'd never hurt me?"

At the sound of her reiteration, the wrenching down his torso lets up, even if only a little, as he realizes what she's actually asking him. Certain that he can assuage her on at least that count, he takes her with him as he leans up and sits back onto his heels. "Lois, look at me." When, after taking a long breath, she finally pulls away from his neck to find his eyes, he firmly replies, "Never. I would never hurt you."

Though believing him, she can't help still being unsettled. "I'm really sorry," she apologizes, sliding both of her hands around to his chest.

"For what? You have nothing to be sorry for."

Her jaw and hands quivering, she tries to explain, "It's just… It's just that you're an amazing guy, Clark. You really are. And I'm saying that as someone who's known a lot of different kinds of men. I mean, even when you couldn't stand me, even before you actually started to like having me around, you were still one of my favorite people in the whole world, because you just weren't like everyone else. You were special. You _are_ special. And I know that I'm not exactly - Well, I mean that I know that I don't tell you that as often as I probably should, but -"

"- That's not true," he says, unable to keep himself from trying to comfort her. "You tell me that all the time."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do. Just not out loud."

"Please, don't confuse me right now."

Regretting having interrupted the ramble that was bound to reveal whatever's sent her reeling, he moves his hands to her upper arms and rubs them as he offers, "I just mean that you don't usually talk about that sorta thing. You just kinda show it. Like… Okay, for instance, you usually only bother arguing with people who you think are worth your time. And, well, you fight with me every chance you get. That says a lot."

"That's a terrible example."

"Well, it's only one," he allows, kicking himself for his poor choice. "There are lots of others. Like how protective you are of me, and how you share your food with me, and how you -"

"- I really do like you, Clark," she blurts out, unable to contain her whirling thoughts any longer. "You're a total spaz, and a total nerd, and a total walking, talking, flying cliché. And you're way too nice, and I don't understand why. And you're way too sentimental, and I don't understand that, either. And - god, help me - I like all of those things." Taking her eyes from his and looking around them, she pauses and sighs, before quietly continuing, "And you could not have made this room look like any more of a fairy tale. And I know that you wouldn't do this any other way, and you have no idea what that means to me…"

Encouraged by her sentiments but still concerned by her agitation, he waits a moment after she's trailed off. When she doesn't start again, he moves his hands from her arms to cup her cheeks. Guiding her gaze back to his, he finds her eyes, and then gently asks, "What are you trying to tell me, Sweetheart?"

His use of the only common endearment she's ever allowed him and of the address to which they both know she's most susceptible reins in her agitated mind. Finally managing to respond clearly, she tells him, "You're my best friend, Clark. I work with you. I write about you. And now, I share a bed with you. But no matter what we're doing or where we are or how we're dressed, when I look at you, I still see the best friend I've ever had. And I don't want that to change. But after tonight, if anything ever happens to us, then it will."

At last understanding her, he affirms, "That's not something you have to worry about."

"Which part?"

"Both."

Taking a hand from her cheek, he uses it to grasp the back of one of her palms and to slide her hand over his heart. Having spent every moment of their relationship prior to his reveal prohibiting himself from imagining the future with her that he knew his duplicity disqualified him from, and having spent nearly every moment since questioning whether his physical reservations made him similarly undeserving, he has only recently, over the course of their day together, allowed himself to begin envisioning a lifetime with her. And it is that notion, about which he's grown ever more hopeful as their night has progressed, that emboldens him to assure her of what he never has before.

Holding her gaze and articulating each word with the conviction he feels, he tells her, "Lois, you are the greatest partner, the greatest ally I've ever known. I will never stop caring about how you feel, what you think, or the things that you say. And you will never stop being the most interesting, most challenging person in my life… I am going to take care of you and I am going to keep us safe for as long as you'll let me. I promise… On my shield, I promise."

Her eyes watery, her tremblings having ceased as he made his vows, she gives him as much of a smile as she can manage. Fighting back her tears, reluctant to make what she would deem too much of a display, she bites her lip and blinks a few times. Then, with only the flames around them to bear witness to their exchange, she whispers, "Me, too. All of that. I promise."

She watches as the brightest smile she's ever seen from him blooms across his features, and she chuckles a bit at his gaiety. Beaming, he leans down and presses a quick kiss to her smirking mouth, and then lifts her onto his thighs and wraps her up in his arms. Seated sideways across his lap, she relaxes into his warmth and into the silence that befalls them.

Peering around the room as he runs a hand through her hair and along her back, she finally manages to embrace their surroundings not as a dream, but as a reality as extraordinary as the man in whose arms she now rests.

After a long while, he feels her turn her head to press her lips to his cheek, and then hears her murmur his name against his skin.

"Yes?" he replies.

Pulling back to find his eyes, she looks at him with an expression that perfectly conveys her meaning as she quietly utters a single word: "Please."

"…Are you sure?"

"I am."

Convinced of both her certainty and his, he takes a moment to gather and refocus himself. After which, he seeks out and then picks up the red garment bunched near his knees, and slips one arm around her back and the other underneath her thighs. Without needing any direction, she drapes her hands around his neck in the same manner that she's done countless times before, and then kisses his cheek again as he lifts her up into his arms and stands.

In a silence far different from the one through which he led her after she first left the bathroom, he carries her across the pallet and onto the carpet. When they arrive at the middle of the right side of the bed, he recalibrates his strength to hold her in just one arm, as he lets go of her back and smoothes out the cloth in his grasp over the far larger surface of the sheet-covered mattress. Then, he secures his hand to her back again, and leans forward to gently rest her on the outspread material.

As her feet dangle several inches off of the floor as a result of the bed's height, she gives him a generous smile as a thank-you for his thoughtfulness, and grasps his hips to center him between her knees.

Reaching off to the side, he takes her pillow from amongst the many others gathered at the head of the bed, and places it behind her. "Is this okay?" he checks, peering around the area closest to her, gauging its dimensions and suitability.

She nods.

"Good," he smiles in return, resting his hands in the curves of her waist, and closing the distance between his mouth and hers.

Taking his time, he runs his hands along her sides, down her legs, and around her back, as he carefully attends her lips and tongue with his. Contented, she luxuriates in his thorough, unhurried touches, letting him re-spark and re-grow the warmth diffuse across her skin, but concentrated at her core. When, after some time, she begins arching into him and mewling into his mouth, he cradles her head and presses into her a bit, reclining her onto her pillow and the bed.

She shifts farther down underneath him and wraps her legs around his back, and then smiles into their kiss as she feels the state of his arousal pushing out against the thin fabric of his boxers. When, to her surprise, he doesn't recoil, she presses up into him and smiles a bit more as he not only lets her writhe against him, but also runs a hand down to her backside and holds her to him as she moves.

"Mmm…" he deeply intones, his temperature rising with every roll of her hips.

Feeling the surface of his back beginning to dampen with sweat, she relaxes her lower body back onto the bed, and murmurs against his lips, "Do you feel okay?"

"Yeah." Despite his answer, though, it occurs to him that she's not yet had so much of his heated skin against hers, and he pulls back enough to inquire, "How about you? Am I too warm?"

"Of course not," she replies, hugging him closer and leaning up to dot a few kisses along his jawline. "I like you like this."

He smiles at her reassurance, slides his hand around to her cheek, and meets her gaze. As she traces her fingers down his spine and he brushes the side of her face with his thumb, they share a long, tender moment.

When he's sure of their mutual understanding, he clears his throat, and then quietly asks, "Do you want me to know anything?"

"Like what?"

"…Anything at all."

Upon grasping his meaning, she smilingly comforts, "I trust your instincts, Clark."

Though grateful for her encouragement, he nonetheless persists in his appeal. "Anything else?"

Sympathizing, she tilts her chin up to kiss his cheek. "Turn your head and close your eyes," she instructs, while taking her arms from around his back.

As he does as told, she threads a hand into his hair and lures him farther down. When she can feel the soft outlines of his ear against her lips, she slides her other hand around his neck, lowers her voice, and purrs, "Are you listening?"

At the sound of her sultry timbre, a tremor runs from his chest to his groin, and he can only nod.

In response, she eases her mouth open, relaxes her tongue, and begins drawing slow, rhythmic circles around and through his crooks and dips. He shivers, mentally noting her movements. Opening her mouth farther, she flattens her tongue and rolls it along his ridges from bottom to top, and finishes by pulling the crest of his ear into her mouth and applying gentle suction while twirling her tongue around it.

After letting go, she whispers, "Just a suggestion."

He takes a moment to steady himself, before turning his head back toward her and kissing her. "Are you comfortable?" he eventually edges.

"Mm-hmm," she replies, insinuating her tongue past his lips.

Assured, he presses his mouth to hers for several more moments, and then finally withdraws.

Drifting down, he dots his lips along the side and front of her neck. When he reaches the dip at the bottom of her throat, he swirls his tongue into the delicate hollow, before running his lips along the bow of her collarbone. With a shuddering exhale, she reaches for his hand on her cheek, and as he grazes his teeth around her shoulder, she drags his palm down to the plane at the middle of her chest.

"Please…" she softly implores, wrapping both of her hands around his neck.

Obligingly, he spreads and tickles his fingers across the bottom of her ribcage, as he trails his slow, moist kisses lower still. Pressing his hand upward, he cradles the underside of her heavy flesh and traces his lips across the upper swell.

She hums in appreciation as he begins gently, steadily kneading her. But when he widens his mouth to cover her straining nipple, he merely runs his tongue around it, momentarily denying her the direct pressure she's after. Taking in a breath, she arches her back and pushes into him. Soon, he gives in, closing his mouth completely over her, and then drawing in as much of her fullness as he can.

"Mmh…" she whimpers.

He smiles against her, his confidence building as a result of her approving responses, and, with increasing insistence, he massages and pulls at her. As her breathing grows more ragged, he kisses his way to her other breast and offers more of the same consideration to it.

When he lightly scrapes his teeth across her hardened nipple, she gasps and trembles as the heat at her core burns ever hotter. She moans softly and pushes her hips up into his torso, seeking some kind of alleviating contact. But before she can find any such pressure, he runs his hand down her side and coaxes her hips back onto the bed.

"I know," he soothes, running a calming hand across her backside and thigh.

Leaving each of her breasts with a final kiss, he drags his tongue along her stomach. As he descends, he happens across the raised surface of the scar near the inner curve of her ribcage, and he takes the time to bestow extra attention upon it, before making his way farther down.

She sighs her need, pleading with him, as he winds his tongue around and into her bellybutton. He feels her trying to push up again, but he holds down her hips while he drifts slightly lower. Lightly, he dots kisses along the line where the upper hem of her underwear begins, before finding himself suddenly overcome and thus arresting his progress.

"…You are so beautiful, Lois," he exhales against her skin and into the air around them. "Nothing compares."

His sentiment, uttered with more impulse than intent, just barely reaches her ears. When it does, though, its sincerity somehow manages to lessen the pangs of her longing and to curb her impatience.

After a significant pause, he pulls away from her a bit and slides his hands down and back up the sides of her thighs, until he reaches the delicate fabric of her underwear. As he hooks his thumbs under and around the material, she lifts her lower body. Then, relishing every bit of her skin as it's revealed, he slowly pulls the sodden lace over her hips and down her legs.

Mesmerized, he sweeps his eyes over her bare figure, thinking it even more radiant and captivating than the candlelight playing across it, and commits her breathtaking image to memory.

When he's finally certain of remembering her every curve and contour exactly as it exists before him in this moment, he sets her underwear down on the floor, gently grasps her waist, and eases her forward until she's perched on the edge of the bed.

Running his hands along her calves, he sinks down to the carpet, as she winds the fingers of one hand into his hair and rests those of the other above her head. After which, she lifts one leg and settles her thigh onto his shoulder, while he hooks a hand under her other thigh and pushes it up and back.

Closing his eyes, he breathes in the exhilarating scent of her arousal. His head spins and his mouth wets in anticipation, as he wraps one hand around the thigh on his shoulder and runs his other hand up to the bend of her knee, holding her open.

More now than perhaps ever before, positioned as a kneeling supplicant before her, he is empowered, invigorated by her warmth. Beaming, his chest swelling with vigor and emotion, he leans forward and closes the small distance between them.

"Mmh…" she softly hums at the first touch, as he lightly brushes his lips against her, tracing them over her glistening flesh.

Pulling away from her just slightly, he runs his tongue over his lips, savoring and memorizing her taste as he recognizes the same complex blend of sweetness and spice that he always gets from her. But here, that intermingling seems all the more rich, all the more unique. And as he leans back into her, relaxing his mouth and extending his tongue, he is as certain as he's ever been that he'll never get enough of her - of this.

Weaving his way across her soft, damp folds, he dips into her curves and eases along her swells. Swallowing, she bites back her desire and lets him explore her, lets him learn her. He moans his delight against her skin, and she shudders at the vibration. With his tongue and his lips, he continues mapping her terrain, noting her whimpers when he slides over the billows of her margins, and her gasps when he swirls against the lines of her middle.

When at last satisfied with his initial discoveries, he drifts up and up, until he reaches the beginnings of her hardened nub. She sharply inhales, and he lessens his pressure, careful to not push too much too soon. Skimming about her bundle of nerves, he exhales his warm, humid breath against her, and feels the muscles in her thighs tense in response, and then release as she sighs in approval.

As he descends, trailing his lips along her, her body moves of its own accord, pushing forward and seeking out more contact. She rubs her fingertips against his scalp and lets out a quiet moan, and he hears the need dripping from her voice, asking him for pacing, for a commitment one way or the other. Heartened by his ability to still recognize her cues, however subtle and however hushed, he tightens his hold on her thigh and pulls her hips farther into him.

Widening his mouth, he flattens his tongue against her, and drags up and back down.

"Mmm…"

Pressing firmer against her, he rolls his tongue along and through her flesh, complementing the tenor of her desire. Sliding over her, rasping against her, he listens as her breaths deepen and quicken.

Licking and then biting her lower lip, she sits up and places her free hand onto the bed behind her, leveraging herself. He accepts her weight and nudges his hand against her knee, lifting her leg until the pad of her foot rests on his shoulder.

Raking his fingers down the back of her thigh, he moans against her again, letting her hear his pleasure. And as she rocks forward, he meets her, massaging his tongue along the smooth, pulsing outlines of her opening.

Holding him to her, she lolls her head back, imagining the flexing muscles of his jaw and the deepening furrows of his brow as he concentrates on her. "Mmh…" she croons over and over, as he moves against her with increasing fervor.

Despite the consistency and clarity of her sounds, though, he can't help wondering at their likewise stifled nature. Knowing her aversion to reticence as he does, he's always imagined her as expressive, vocal. Indeed, he remembers, she intimated as much following their abandoned exchange in his dressing room. But now, even in a setting perfectly suited to that of which she assured him, she seems all the less articulate than before. And for a moment, he considers whether she's holding back.

His concern, however, produces an unintended result, as the reach of his awareness collapses in from the area immediately surrounding them and centers entirely on her. The writhes of her hips, the lilts in her voice, the heat from her core - every one of her responses to his ministrations heightens his senses and further ignites his arousal.

His skin slickens. His muscles strain. And the pressure in his groin rises. If it weren't for what he assumes to be the impossibility of such a prospect, he'd feel certain of the conclusion to which her sounds and sensations seem to be carrying him. But, pushing past the growing discomfort of his underwear against him and rationalizing her volume as that with which she's most comfortable, he dismisses every marginal thought and refocuses on her need.

Moving with her, he pulls with her pushes and pushes with her pulls. Listening to her, he follows her every cue for less here or more there.

Finding her cadence… Matching her tempo… Building a rhythm to entice and direct her mounting desperation for release…

"Please…" he hears her whisper. And though struck by the only actual word she's uttered, he understands her all the same.

Spreading his hand across her hip and remembering her suggestion, he further widens his mouth and softens his tongue.

"Mmm…" she moans, as he drags up toward her apex.

With more pressure than before, he circles her delicate nub - once, and then again - before closing his mouth around it. Deliberately, rhythmically, he glides his tongue directly over her. She clutches at his hair, pushing herself up into him, swaying against him as he suckles and strokes her.

"Oh, god…"

Sensing that she's nearly there, he swirls his tongue under her thin hood and presses flat against her. Keeping himself still, he hears her draw in a last hissing breath, and feels the muscles in her legs pull and tense.

She bears down, holding on for as long as possible, until her entire body exhales.

The keening gasp accompanying her release echoes down into him, and something within him nearly triggers. Distrusting the reaction, he immediately relaxes the grasps of his hands, and, fixing the muscles down his arms in a hard flex, rides out the strongest waves of the force coursing through him.

Even from within the throes of her ecstasy, she recognizes and wonders at his response. But for the time being, racked by the strength of her climax, she can only tumble back onto the bed and wait for her body to recover.

The air around them falls silent except for her pants as she catches her breath. Gradually leaning his mouth away from her, he re-secures his hands against her and drapes both of her legs over his shoulders, taking the entire weight of her lower body. As she descends from her high, he listens to her occasional sighs and hums of satisfaction, and he fills with a thorough sense of tranquility that bespeaks his own relief.

With his eyes closed, he savors their first ever moments after, licking her traces from his lips, resting his head against her inner thigh, and aimlessly running his hands across her legs. Having spent so long in either denial or doubt, he now feels comforted, elated by the assurance that, in at least one way, he can share with her without reservation.

When she finally comes down enough to open her eyes, her thoughts resettle on him. Wondering why he hasn't yet joined her on the bed, she lifts her head just enough to peer down her body at him, but she can only make out his mussed hair and sweat-slicked brow. If it weren't for the languid strokes of his hands against her, she'd question whether he's drifting off to sleep. But, without needing to ask him anything, she empathizes with the emotions he must be experiencing.

Leaving him to his thoughts and letting him enjoy the significance of their moment, she lays her head back down and lowers her lids. In so doing, however, she becomes suddenly aware of the moisture peeking out from the corners of her eyes. Shaking her head at her absurdity, she brushes away two tiny droplets with her free hand and thanks a higher power that she didn't beckon him to her just yet. Otherwise, he may have witnessed her exhibition. How embarrassing, she thinks to herself as she wipes her damp fingers against her pillow, dreading the prospect of any further outbursts. Nonetheless, loath as she is to dwell too long on her self-consciousness, she focuses instead on the coziness of her supine position and the appreciative caresses of his hands.

After some time, his cheek turning and his lips pressing against her thigh stir her eyes behind their hoods. Breathing deeply, she relaxes into his light touch, expecting it to be fleeting. But, rather than withdraw, he sweeps up a little higher along her skin.

Despite her uncertainty as to what's prompted his advance, she doesn't resist the whimper that escapes her throat or the urge to readjust the position of her hips. Upon shifting, though, she realizes the basis of his motivation as she feels the fresh flush of arousal dampening her flesh, her body's instinctive reaction to his wandering hands and to his nearness to the most responsive part of her.

The heady scent of her rekindled desire entices him back to its source as his palate excites from longing for her taste. Still, uncertain as he is to her inclination and wary as he is of presuming, he waits for some sort of sign from her, and, leaving soft kisses here and there, lingers in an area high enough to convey his own disposition. When she shifts again, widening her legs slightly and running one of her heels up the back of his shoulder, he happily accepts her gesture and eases his mouth farther open to tease his tongue across her thigh.

As he nears her heat, he hears her softly say his name in question.

"Hmm?" he intones, turning his head to touch his lips to her again.

"Come here."

Her reply stops him just a breath away from her, and his entire body sinks from his thwarted hope. Nonetheless, after reining in his initial sense of disappointment, he forces himself to oblige her and thus begins sliding out from underneath her thighs. As he rises, taking a second to adjust himself into a more comfortable and less conspicuous position within his boxers, she reaches behind her to push away her pillow, and sits up enough to scoot back off of the red fabric beneath her and onto the cream-colored cotton of the fitted sheet.

Crawling onto the bed as he ascends her body, dotting several kisses to her stomach and chest, he relishes how inviting the plush surface of the mattress and its toppers feel beneath his hands and knees, and how at home he feels upon entering their shared space.

As he presses his lips to her collarbone, she stops sliding back and reaches for the sides of his face. But when her hands meet his cheeks, he shivers, as her touch, though warm, feels cool to what he only now realizes is the fiery surface of his skin. The sensation jars his mind, awakening him to how piqued his body has become. Suddenly flustered, he bites his teeth and swallows, trying to steady himself, and then lets her tilt his head up toward her.

"Hi."

His thoughts having been momentarily derailed, he couldn't be more surprised at the sound of her affectionate tone and the sight of her smoldering gaze.

"Hello," he whispers with a smile in his voice, wondering if he's ever heard her greet him so simply and so cordially.

Circling her arms around his neck, she coaxes his lips down to hers. Just as he begins to settle into the cradle between her hips, though, he stops short of her mouth, looks away, and winces from the pressure of her against him.

"I know, Clark," she quietly offers in consolation, running a hand through his hair and turning his head back to her.

How he managed to disregard the steady rise in his temperature from the moment he sank to the floor, she's not sure. And while it seemed to level out the moment her body let go, she was surprised that it didn't abate during the quiet minutes he spent with his head resting against her. Still, she can't help enjoying his excitability - the alacrity and intensity with which he responds to her. Something about it, she muses as she wraps her ankles around the backs of his thighs and tilts her head up to capture his lips, makes him all the more alluring. And if it weren't for her understanding that he, even for all his abilities, can only take so much, she'd contemplate permanently keeping him in his present state.

He accepts her compassion and the easy manner in which her mouth melds with his. At first hesitant, however, he parts his lips, letting her seek out his tongue as she pleases. When she soon does, he's met with a low moan as she tastes herself on him. Emboldened by her reaction, he deepens their kiss, angling his head farther to the side. She reciprocates, sliding her hands from his hair, down his back, and over the fabric of his boxers. Holding him to her, rubbing her fingers into the taut curves of his backside, she considers inching around to the front of his hips. But, she's already been confronted twice before today with his tendency to recoil. And no matter her wish of lavishing her care and consideration upon him, she can't - not until she's certain of his comfort and his assent.

Before long, the sumptuous flow of her lips and the provocative kneading of her fingertips unsteady his breaths and further sharpen his awareness of his arousal. His muscles struggling to contend with the overwhelming exhilaration coursing through them, he yearns for something - anything - to allay her both irresistible and tormenting proximity. But her hips, firm against him and yet unmoving, offer no degree of the relief that they have at other times during the past day. Missing her rhythms, in need of what he cannot quite articulate or initiate, he feels his heart begin to pound and the caresses of her hands begin to sting. Still, remembering their assurances to one another, he doesn't try to deny his agitation, and acts on his first instinct to seek out her voice.

"Lois?"

"Hmm?" she intones, hardly registering anything but their points of contact.

The sound of her response, despite being minimal, curbs the initial manifestations of his overstimulation, and he searches for a means of further engaging her. Settling on his only thought besides that of her body nestled beneath his, he gently remarks, "You've been kinda quiet."

His observation, to which she knows there to be considerable truth, penetrates her haze, and she immediately perceives the signs of his instability. Moving her hands to rest on his chest and withdrawing from their kiss to find his eyes, she silently acknowledges his admission. "Have I?"

With both his concern and his desire plainly evident, he gives a slight nod.

She pauses, recognizing his conflicting impulses and trying to think of a way to address them, within the limits of both her present disposition and his. Then, making a real effort, she asks, "Would you like to know what I'm thinking about right now?"

"Yeah."

Running her hands around to the nape of his neck, she pulls him back down to her, and lowers her tone as she tells him, "You."

With both his emotional and his physical anxieties dissipating with every successive word from her, he forgoes her mouth for the time being and presses his to her neck, encouraging her to say more.

She closes her eyes, surrendering to his coaxing touch. "Your kindness. Your warmth… How strong you are. How gentle you can be… How much I've wanted you…"

"You have me," he whispers into the curve of her throat.

She smiles, both appreciative of his eager affirmation and intrigued by the subtle rise in his body heat. "I know," she offers. "But still, you're all I can think about sometimes. Especially when we're apart. Especially when I'm by myself…"

Her reply stops him on his winding path back up her neck, but before he can process her intimation, her hands pressing against him draw his notice. He leans back onto his knees a bit, giving her the space she's asking for, and reflexively glances down between them when he feels her touch abandon him. His discontent with the loss of her contact quickly gives way, though, as he discovers her hands gradually sweeping across her stomach, down her sides, and up her inner thighs. His groin tightening, his breath catching, he watches her with unblinking eyes as her quiet, dark timbre drifts back into his ears.

"Sometimes at night, after you've told me a story and I hang up the phone, replaying the sound of your voice in my mind… Sometimes in the morning, after I wake up, wishing your arms were around me…" Her eyes on his face, she delights in his rapt gaze as she centers one of her hands against herself, deep within the shadows cast between their bodies, and persists, "My back arched. My head thrown back. My fingers inside of me… Touching myself the way I imagine you would…"

He follows her hands as they reappear back into the candlelight, and his palate excites at the sight of a single glistening finger.

"Biting my lip as I get closer and closer, just to keep from crying out your name…" He peers up at her in question, and she smirks as she explains, "I wouldn't wanna trigger your hearing." As a moment of disappointment flickers across his face, she mentally notes his apparent interest, stores it away for a later date, and then offers him the diversion of her hand.

Grateful, he parts his lips and lets her slip her finger into his mouth. As the taste of her fills his senses, he closes his eyes and sighs his pleasure, licking away every trace as she slowly withdraws. Taking advantage of his distraction, she shifts her hips and presses against his shoulders, turning him over.

Only when he feels the stinging friction of the fabric of his boxers settling against his rigidity does he apprehend the change in his position. Instinctively, he does his best to ignore his discomfort, and accordingly laces his hands into her hair, cascading down onto the bed on one side of his face, and starts to sit up to reach for her kiss. But, deterring him, she pushes against his chest, forcing him back down. When he begins to protest, she cuts him short.

"- Do you think about me?" she pointedly asks, holding herself up on her hands, pressed into the bed on either side of his head, and her knees, placed on either side of his torso.

"What?"

"You heard me."

Thrown by the frankness of her inquiry, he wavers, "I, um… I don't - I mean, I'm not sure what you -"

She interrupts his deflection, leaning down and capturing his lips. Grateful for the reprieve, he submits to her ministrations.

Focusing entirely on his mouth, she channels her longing into every roll of her tongue and brush of her lips. Inundated by her sensations, he unthreads his hands from her hair and wraps them as far around her back as he can, holding onto her as he dizzies from want. Feeling his warmth starting to come in waves, she presses farther and firmer into his mouth, eliciting a heady moan from deep within his throat. His chest and shoulders beginning to tremble from what he almost believes to be fatigue, he breaks their kiss, drops his hands down to the tops of her thighs, and strives to grapple with the pressure building within him.

Redirecting her attentions, she traces her tongue along the line of his jaw and then around the curve of his earlobe. His desperation growing, he starts to circle his arms around her hips. But, anticipating him, she reaches behind her, grasps his wrists, and pushes them onto the bed, just above his head. He strains to resist, but finds every muscle in his arms unresponsive. Exasperated, wincing, he groans his displeasure at both his helplessness and his painfully aroused state.

"Answer my question," she insists, nipping at the highest ridge of his ear.

Too overcome to deny the truth, he pants, "I think about you."

"In the morning? Or at night?"

"Both," he flatly admits.

"And other times, too?" she presses, leaning up from the side of his face. "Like when you're not answering your phone right before or right after we hang out?"

His eyes fly open upon him hearing her, and he meets her gaze with both disbelief and mortification.

"I told you: I always know."

Reeling, he starts to offer some kind of explanation. "Lois -"

"- Do you want me, Clark?" she whispers, her voice inflected with more sympathy than menace. "Is that why nothing you can do helps even a little bit? Is that why it feels so constant, so inescapable?… Because you know the only touch that can satisfy you is mine?"

He stares at her, taken aback by her insight into that about which he's always tried to be discreet. His every struggle with his desire for her laid bare, he feels exposed, vulnerable. All the same, in having the assurance of her certain knowledge, he simultaneously feels unburdened, free. Thus, he has no fear in answering her as honestly as she questioned him.

"Yes."

She releases his wrists and cups the sides of his face, kissing him soundly. Then, as he runs his hands up her arms to the backs of her shoulders, she withdraws from his lips enough to murmur, "I need you to ask me."

Understanding her, understanding himself, he breathlessly manages to echo her sentiment from not long ago: "…Please."

Upon her finally hearing what she's waited to for so long, her chest fills with a mix of exuberance and relief that she's not experienced to such a degree since he pulled her into their first kiss. Beaming, she presses her lips to his mouth and then to his cheek, as she slowly runs a hand down his neck and over his chest.

His skin alight, his entire body wrought, he squeezes his eyes closed and grasps her waist, fighting back the coursing, pulsing rush coiling tighter and tighter within him, as he feels her nails skimming along the plane of his stomach, and then the pads of her fingers slipping beneath and reaching beyond the hem of his boxers.

He gasps and shudders, overtaken by the first direct contact of her to him. And all at once, the swell of energy pent up at his core sparks, exploding outward with almost brutal intensity. Startled, unprepared, he reflexively moves his hands to the bed and clutches the sheets. Holding onto him, she listens to his voice, gruff from exertion, and watches his face, contorted in ecstasy, as she feels him convulse within her grasp.

When his last tremor passes, he releases the clenches of his fists and sinks entirely into the bed, trying over and over again for an even breath. In time, the caresses of her hand to his cheek and of her lips to his brow pacify his mind and body, and he finally manages to inhale and exhale without difficulty.

At last purged of months of anguish, every part of him now teems with an incomparable sense of serenity and catharsis. And for a while, he can do nothing but relish the contentment he feels.

In the silence that surrounds them, she nuzzles his face and neck, pressing her lips to him from time to time, as his temperature falls and his rigidity retreats. Eventually, she begins to wonder whether he's floated too far off into his euphoric state, and, by way of testing his consciousness, she gradually loosens her hold on him and then sweeps her fingertips across the front of his hip. His stomach twitches, and he withdraws a bit from the sensation. She lets up, spreading her hand against the ticklish patch of his skin, while he finally begins to come back to himself. As his coherence returns, though, his initial thoughts prompt a feeling entirely different from the one in which he luxuriated for the past couple minutes.

Hesitantly, he opens his eyes, only to find her looking right back at him, endeavoring to contain a thoroughly amused grin. But after another moment or two, her mostly disingenuous efforts fail and she bursts out into rolls of giggles. He averts her gaze, and she watches as a deep blush suffuses his features, just before he lifts his hands to cover his face, hiding himself from her.

"Oh, Sweetie. No, no, no. I'm not laughing at you," she swears, bending back on her knees to sit astride his stomach and leaning forward to grasp his wrists. "I'm just surprised."

Still chuckling, she tugs at his arms, trying to get his hands to budge, but he refuses to cooperate.

"C'mon, Clark. Don't be such a guy. After the day you've had -"

Muffling into his palms, he huffs, "- I don't wanna talk about it."

"Because you're embarrassed about your super-sensitivity?"

"Lois…" he groans, shrinking deeper into the mattress.

"You're right. That wasn't funny. Bad timing." Trying a different tack, she dots her lips to each of his fingers, and then starts to spread them apart until she can see his eyes peeking through.

"I don't know what happened," he complains, mostly to himself, as he finally lets her pull his hands from his face and rest them on his chest. And then, entirely to her, he insists, "That's _never_ happened."

"Which could be a good thing, right?" she offers. "I didn't think that was even possible for you."

"Neither did I," he grouses, at a loss as to how she can find anything encouraging about his predicament.

"So we both learned something new tonight."

Ignoring the smirk in her voice, he rubs his temples, pinches the bridge of his nose, and shifts gears. "Lois, I'm really sor -"

"- Oh, no," she insists, wagging a finger for emphasis. "Do not start with the apologizing."

"But this isn't how I -"

"- Clark, stop. I mean it."

"Lois, please, at least let me say -"

"- You're not listening to me," she interrupts, reaching a hand around behind her, out of his view, and down between his legs.

"No. Of course I am. It's just that - Ah!" he exclaims, bucking up from the bed, more shocked than pained at the sudden feeling of her seizing hold of him through his boxers. He starts to protest her brazen means, but he's cut short by her other hand covering his mouth.

"I guess they're not exactly made of steel, huh?" she taunts, firming her grip a bit more.

"Mmph!" he desperately muffles into her palm, the muscles in his stomach and groin pulled tight. Terrified to move, lest he twist or turn the wrong way, he offers her as pitiable an expression as possible.

Unaffected, she tells him, "Don't give me the eyes. You brought this on yourself."

In response to her reproof, his face falls into a look of genuine contrition, which only makes her snicker at him a few moments longer, before she finally decides to offer him an out.

"Do I have your attention now?"

He nods.

"You sure?"

He nods again.

With a wry smile, she releases the clasps of both her hands. As he sharply exhales in relief, he starts to sit up a little farther and to reach for the area she so abruptly handled. But, he hesitates when he sees her regarding him pointedly, daring him to continue. After a contemplative second, he balks, choosing instead to slightly adjust the position of his lower body. As he shifts around beneath her, she chuckles at his awkward modesty in avoiding coddling himself in front of her. Flustered as he already is, he quickly settles back into his seat and tries to silence her laughter with a kiss, but she presses her hands to his chest and slightly shakes her head. Without needing any further dissuasion, he decides against persisting, as he knows she's no intention in letting him distract her from having her say.

Accepting his concession, she moves her hands to grasp and rub his upper arms. Confused, he looks left and then right at his shoulders, trying to understand her gesture. When she exaggeratedly clears her throat, though, he realizes what she's doing - mocking him. Narrowing his eyes and setting his jaw, he finds her gaze and waits.

"There are two ways we can look at this," she dryly begins, ignoring his plainly apparent annoyance. "One: As your karmic payback for initiating this little romance by force. -"

"I didn't maul you," he grumbles, too preoccupied with other thoughts to question why she'd relate their first kiss to their present moment.

Speaking over him, she goes on in a far less sardonic tone, "- Or, two: As one of the best compliments you've ever given me." She watches as his exasperated expression begins to soften in response to her latter suggestion. Dropping the affect, she wraps her arms around his neck, leans her forehead into his, and lowers her voice to a whisper. "I like that I can do that to you, and I like that you can have more than one kind of experience with me. So as hard as your super-sized ego may find this to hear: I'm flattered."

He takes a long breath, considering her reasoning and her reassurance, as she runs the tip of her nose up and down the bridge of his. "You're flattered?" he asks, after ruminating for a bit longer.

"Mm-hmm."

"You would be," he retorts, tickling his fingers across her sides.

She starts and giggles, and his mood brightens as a result. At the same time, however, her sudden movement across his lap brings a separate matter to his mind. As she works her way through her continued mirth, she watches a look of discomfiture form on his face. Bemused, she lifts her eyebrows in question.

He swallows the nervous tension in his throat, nearly choking on it, as he glances down between them and then in the direction of the bathroom. "Um… I should, uh…"

"Oh," she replies in understanding, though immediately finding such a notion needless. "No. Let me."

He tries to think of something to say as a means of preventing her, but before he can conceive of such a deterrent, she's already begun shuffling off of his thighs. As he watches her in staggered silence, she leans over the footboard of the bed, surveys her options, and then picks up the small stack of towels and the goblet of water still resting on the bench. Catching sight of the things in her grasp, he starts to reach for them, saying, "Lois, I can just -"

"- Hush," she tells him, holding the items away from him and making her way back to his spot in the middle of the bed.

He does as told, and thus receives a peck to his lips for his good behavior. As she leans away from him, she takes a sip of the water and then offers him the glass. He shakes his head, the thought of food or drink thoroughly disagreeing with his unsettled stomach. She smirks at the sight of his fixed jaw and motionless body, while she sets the towels down on the bed and reaches past him to place the goblet on what she assumes he's dubbed as her nightstand.

As she resituates herself in front of him, though slightly off to his side, the scent of her hair drifts back into the air nearest to him, and he breathes in. Forgetting his uneasiness for the moment, he lifts a hand to stroke a loose tress and tilts his head forward to better appreciate its light fragrance. She gazes at him in silence and brushes her fingers down his sides, leaving him to his diversion.

After a brief while, the feeling of her fingertips playing across his waistband surmounts his pleasure in her long locks. He turns his head a bit and finds her eyes. She offers him a kind smile and another quick kiss, which he reciprocates in spite of his foremost thoughts. As she withdraws, he regards her with an expression of fearful acquiescence, waiting for her next move.

"Sit up," she instructs, slipping her fingertips just underneath the hem of his boxers.

He lets her hair fall away from his grasp and presses his hands into the bed to brace himself. Then, with a deep breath held in his lungs for added fortification, he obliges her, lifting his lower half.

Careful of his apprehension, she holds his gaze with hers as she gradually pulls his only bit of clothing down his legs. The air in the room meets the remnants of his desire, smeared across the entirely bare skin that he reflexively started to deny earlier in the day. Acutely aware, thoroughly put out, he clenches his teeth, doing his best to remain composed.

With slight, knowing movements, she takes her eyes from his, drops his boxers onto the carpet, and plucks a hand towel from the stack next to them. As she leans over him again - though in the direction of his nightstand rather than hers - he wonders at her purpose and turns his head to observe her. Careful of disturbing the floating candles in the basin atop the small table, she dips half of the cloth past the rose petals covering the water, which the melting wax of the lit candles has warmed. Comprehending her aim, he directs his gaze elsewhere and tries to focus on something other than his embarrassment.

After wringing out some of the excess from the towel, she returns to sitting back on her heels, glancing at him long enough to see him looking anywhere but at her. For a moment, she considers suggesting that he count the tealights, as doing so helped her not long ago. But, rather than pose what she's certain he'd hear as a gibe, she lowers her gaze and keeps her attention on her present task.

As she lightly touches the towel to just beneath his navel, he bites his teeth even harder and tenses noticeably.

"It's not cold, is it?" she checks, looking up at his averted eyes.

He intones a quick negative, regretting that the sensation that ran through him wasn't one of discomfort, for he can already perceive the initial flickers of what his experiences with her have taught him is an unavoidable flame. She takes him at his word, though, and begins gently rubbing the soft, damp cloth down between his legs, wiping away the vestiges on his skin. As she drifts back up, a few of her knuckles happen to sweep across the most sensitive part of him. His blood charges and starts on a direct path to his groin. He closes his eyes and shakes his head at himself, knowing from her brief pause that she can very well see what he can very well feel.

Nevertheless, as he reopens his eyes, he finds himself caught by the ethereal manner in which the candlelight surrounding them holds her lithe form, and, all at once, his dismay gives way as his focus shifts entirely to her. Making the most of his present vantage, he runs his gaze over her neck, her breasts, her hips, her legs. His hands suddenly teeming with energy, he reaches out to trace his fingers up and down the curve of her waist, almost as if to assure himself that she's real.

He watches the corners of her mouth perk up as she smiles from his gesture, and he warms upon seeing her so pleasantly affected by his touch. Just like that, the echoes of her burning, breathless voice fill his ears, and he can think of nothing but embracing her, testifying to her all over again.

Having not quite finished blotting his skin with the dry half of the towel, she's surprised to feel him brushing her hair behind her shoulder and leaning over to press a lingering kiss to the side of her throat. But his palms and his lips, far sultrier than they were just a few minutes ago, convey his present mindset every bit as much as his flushing skin and swelling girth. She closes her eyes for a moment, absorbing the tenderness in his advance. As he leaves another kiss just beneath her ear, however, she tries to dissuade him. "Clark…" she edges. Still, the only response she receives is his hand running down her arm and taking the towel from her grasp. She whispers his name for a second time as he drops the cloth over the side of the bed, but she again fails to receive a spoken reply.

He wraps an arm around her back and rests a hand on the side of her face. She turns her cheek into his palm, yielding to him in spite of herself. But even as he dots his lips to the underside of her jaw, she remains wary of the end to which his gallantry would carry them if she let it. And no matter the appeal of spending the rest of the night as the object of his doting nature, she'd regret setting a precedent of that one-sided sort.

He tilts his head up and around, withdrawing from her neck and focusing on the ripe oval of her mouth. His lips, his tongue electrified with anticipation, he leans into her.

"Stop, Sweetie."

Hearing her utterance, regardless of its gentle phrasing, he immediately abandons his pursuit and pulls away from her. She smiles at his unwavering chivalry, and then chuckles at his look of concern when their eyes meet.

Confused by her amusement, he wonders, "What?"

"Nothing," she assures him, sitting up onto her knees. "Lie down."

As she pushes away the rest of the towels, he accommodates her request, reclining back onto the bed. She grasps her pillow, and he smirks as she slides it behind his head and starts to crawl on top of him.

"What's so funny?" she asks, slowing her progress.

Echoing the answer she just gave him, he quips, "Nothing."

"C'mon. Let's hear it."

Settling onto her pillow, he chuckles a bit in expectation of her protest as he replies, "You're not nearly as mean as you like people to think you are. That's all."

She scoffs in indignation and knees his thigh. "Those are fighting words, Kent."

"You scared I'll spill your secret?" he teases, ignoring her threat.

"It's not a secret if it's not true."

"Is that what you'll say to everyone after I tell them?"

"You wouldn't."

He runs a hand along her back, bidding her down onto him, as he counters, "I would."

"I doubt that. Because you know what I'd do to you."

"Something involving kryptonite, I'm sure."

"Smart-ass," she retorts, finally stretching out her body above his.

His expression changes and he stifles a moan as the front of her hip rubs across his rigidity, hardening him all the more. Pleased by his response, she presses against him again and watches his jaw tremble as a wave of elevated warmth flows through him. In need of the kiss he's yet to receive, he sets his sights on her mouth once more, as she brushes her hair to one side, out of her way, and tilts her head down to his. He closes his eyes in eager anticipation, relishing her breaths washing over his lips, just before she eliminates the space between them.

His pulse quickens as she sweeps over and pulls at him, offering him the kind of slight touches that leave him tingling, frantic for more. She widens her lips and seeks out his tongue with hers. He reaches to meet her, but she slips away, tempting him to follow after her. Defiantly, he tells himself that he won't give in that easily - not this time, anyway. She smiles from inside, amused by his futile efforts, and changes tactics. Angling her head far enough to the side, she extends her tongue again and outlines the corner of his mouth. He shudders, a deep groan escaping his throat, as she continues exploiting her knowledge of him, attending an area too sensitive for him to resist.

In as clear an admission of defeat as he can make, he cradles the back of her head and circles an arm around her waist, preparing to turn her over. But, discouraging him, she plants her hands on the bed and hums a negative tone. He sighs his discontent, and she offers him the consolation of her tongue, her taste. His spirits lift and he relaxes farther into her pillow, letting her guide his movements and further ignite his arousal.

More quickly than she supposed possible following so strong a release, his temperature once again reaches a familiarly heightened degree. Easing their tempo and slowly withdrawing from him, she whispers a question against his lips.

From deep within his haze, he barely hears the words she articulates, but their meaning still manages to penetrate his awareness. He opens his eyes to find hers, and, with his silence, asks her if he understands her correctly.

"Are you comfortable?" she softly repeats, in such a manner as to dispel any doubt.

The ruddiness in his cheeks deepens in consequence of her reply. He shifts a little and clenches his teeth, trying to quell his discomposure. Then, in as casual a tone as he can muster, he replies, "Yeah. I'm okay."

She smiles, warming from head to toe upon witnessing the blush and the physical tics that belie his feigned poise. For all his power and for all his influence, she muses to herself as she continues regarding him, he's still such an innocent - unaffected, unguarded in the realm of his personal relationships. How he can be so free with his feelings, she may never know. How the words, the testaments that at times terrify her can sustain him, she may never understand. But in moments like this, as she feels herself falling for him all over again, she can at least appreciate the openness that seems so far beyond her own capacity.

He watches her as she lifts her chin high enough to press a kiss to his brow. "What was that for?" he asks, attributing her gesture to whatever thoughts went through her mind during her pensive few seconds.

"Ask me some other time," she tells him, combing her fingers through his hair and running her lips back across his cheek.

He draws in a sharp breath as she approaches his ear, thus bracing himself for the tormenting sensations of her tongue winding around his lobe and through his ridges. Nevertheless, he finds himself unprepared for her provocative display as she flicks and rolls her way over his skin.

The rate of his breaths increases and he grows ever more aware of the heat at his core. Feeling his coherence waning, he uses what's left of his willpower to ask, "Are you sure about this? Because I don't want you to think that -"

"- I'm sure," she insists, leaving sumptuous kisses down the side of his throat, savoring the salty taste of the sweat still on his skin.

"Well… Should I, um…" he clumsily begins, glancing in the direction of the closet and thinking of the various items he stored away behind its closed door.

"Should you what?"

Her hair sweeps across his shoulder and his chest as she readjusts her angle, pressing her lips to the other side of his neck and nipping at the strongest sinew she finds. He glances up at the ceiling, searching its surface for his resolve, but he doesn't manage to find it until she repeats her question in a taunting tone that he hasn't the presence of mind to find vexing.

Clearing his throat, he tries again, "It's just that… I mean, I know we agreed not to, but that was a while ago, and I didn't know if you changed your mind between then and now… So I bought, you know, in case you want me to -"

"- I don't," she maintains, raising her mouth from his throat and offering him a quick kiss for his thoughtfulness. "Do you?"

"I don't care," he absently replies, as she turns her lips into the palm of his hand cupping her cheek. But then, checking his offhandedness, he corrects himself. "I mean, I do care. I'm just saying that this should probably be mostly up to you. Because, well…" He loses his train of thought once more as he watches her trail her lips across the base of his hand, and then guide his thumb into her mouth. His breath catches at the suggestiveness of her subsequent motions, all hidden from his immediate view.

"You were saying?" she presses, after finishing her spectacle and leaving a chaste kiss to the pad of his thumb.

He blinks several times and shakes his head a bit, clearing away his fogginess. Finally remembering the basis of his concern, he hesitates a moment before quietly asking, "What if I, um… What about later?"

"What about it?" she needles, daring him to clarify his meaning. But when he looks at her as if to entreat her sympathy, she decides against causing him any more awkwardness than he already feels. "I'm actually okay with that," she tenders in response to his question. "But if you're not, then I understand."

He nods in acknowledgement of her reply and readily reciprocates when she captures his lips.

After some time, she murmurs through their kiss, "I do have one request, though."

"Anything," he promises her without a second thought. "Anything you want."

"…Try to not let me go this time."

...


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: **To all those who have been reading and/or reviewing "Illumination": Thank you so much! I couldn't have finished this epically long final chapter without you! Also, though I have begun writing another multi-chapter companion story (tentatively titled "Veneration"), I'm not certain of when it'll be complete. So, for now, if you're interested in the events before and/or after "Illumination," you can find the prequel ("Revelation") and the sequel ("Consummation") listed on my bio page. Thanks again, everyone! Cheers!

* * *

_[Rating: NC-17 - For occasional mild profanity, and for explicit depictions of sexual situations.]_

**CHAPTER 15**

Their eyes meet as the import of what she's asking strikes him. He's predisposed, she's well aware, to distrust what he feels, what he cannot control. And given the scale of both the constructive and destructive feats accomplished at his hands, she can understand the logic to his rationale. In his mind, even the slightest slip for the slightest second could have a devastating effect on her, a notion with which at least one of his reactions earlier tonight have told her he still struggles. But then, he doesn't know what she knows.

She's felt him lose himself to her before - when his mouth is pressed to her neck and he can't hear someone approaching them; when he pulls away from her kiss to gasp for the air he hardly ever needs - and at no point has she ever sensed even the potential for ill in his touch. What she's learned, what she understands that only experience itself can teach him, is that his subconscious - the part of him that was bound to her before they ever met; the part of him that drives his passion for everything about her - is not the source of his troubles, but the key to resolving them. For at every level of his being, all the way down to his very core, he's incapable of doing her harm. It's not just that he wouldn't hurt her; it's that he couldn't. And while he hasn't yet embraced that fundamental reality, his efforts in arranging their first night together and in progressing it thus far make her all the more confident that he someday will.

For now, though, as he gazes back at her with the same anxious resolve that he did when he initially suggested the present course for their evening, she can't help relishing this stage in their journey. He won't always be so circumspect, so diffident. The moments they share won't always be so fraught. All the same, she feels fortunate that for as many experiences as will someday constitute their relationship, she'll be able to count this one - as unique, as extraordinary as it is - amongst them.

With his silent assent given and accepted, she melds her mouth to his a final time, before trailing her lips down the front of his throat. His eyes closed, he girds his psyche for its imminent tumult. But as she dips her tongue into the hollow between his collarbones, sending a tremor deep down into his belly, he realizes the futility of any and all attempts at preparation. Unfamiliar, thoroughly disconcerting - such is the nature of the territory he's agreed to explore. And with no compass of his own to guide him, he's obliged to look outside himself to the only other means he trusts to light his way.

As she dots her lips back across the base of his throat, she feels him hold her a little closer in spite of the tension she can perceive throughout his body. His tacit appeal for her reassurance brings a smile to her face, and she lifts her head long enough to kiss his cheek.

"Just breathe," she murmurs against his skin.

He nods slightly and swallows the knot in his throat as she withdraws. Her words echo through him, and he repeats them in his mind, forming a kind of mantra. As she feels him beginning to relax a bit, she shifts slightly and lowers her mouth to his neck once more. He moans softly, reveling in the slow descent of her suckling, nibbling kisses as she makes her way down onto his torso.

Running her hands over his sides, letting him enjoy the pressure of her breasts, her hips against him, she teases her lips around one of the points of his chest. He gasps a little and reflexively presses his groin into her thigh as she touches her tongue to his tightened nub. She persists, and he sharply inhales when she lightly scrapes her teeth across him.

Conscious of the further increase in his temperature, she soon turns her attention to the other side of his chest. He licks his lips and winces, sensing his arousal approaching an irrepressible degree. As she feels his lower body stir again, instinctively and aimlessly seeking out relief, she raises herself off of him. He exhales a plaintive groan at the loss of contact, blinking his eyes open as his head begins to spin.

Hearing the need in his voice, she trails her kisses farther down and rubs her hands across his thighs.

"Lois…" he quietly pleads in response to her kneading fingertips, though hardly knowing whether it's mercy for which he's asking.

As she presses her mouth to the defined, trembling musculature of his stomach, she nudges one of her knees against the inside of one of his. Despite his fervid state, he still manages to understand her cue, and thus widens the space between his legs, making room for her. She turns onto her side, leaving most of her weight on her hip, and takes a hand away from him. The sudden absence of her touch jars his mind, and he looks down his body to discover her tucking several strands of her hair behind her ear. Automatically trying to be helpful, he sits up just enough to assist in brushing the rest of her tresses over one of her shoulders.

"Thank you," she whispers against the front of his hip, just before pressing a hand to his chest.

Following her unspoken instruction, he reclines back onto the bed and lets his eyes fall closed.

From behind the darkness of his lowered lids, he threads the fingers of one hand farther into her hair, keeping it out of her way, and threads the fingers of the other hand into hers, still resting on his chest. With her unoccupied hand, she grazes her nails up his inner thigh and watches him squirm as a result. The heat, the humidity from his core radiate into the air all around her. She glances up at him, taking a moment to memorize the emotions playing across his face: his lips, his cheeks flushed from want; his brow, his jaw contracted in uncertainty.

More now than perhaps ever before, she believes the tearful sentiments he offered to her three months ago as they stood opposite each other on a makeshift sun, for nothing short of the feelings he professed that night could carry him to the place at which he's now arrived. Humbled by his courage, heartened by his trust, she lowers her gaze, tilts her head down, and closes the small distance between them.

"Mmh…" he softly intones at the first contact, as she brushes her lips along the underside of his length. His grasps on her hair and her hand reflexively tighten at the novel sensation, and she proceeds slowly as he adjusts.

Gliding along him, she maps the winding trails of his pulsing blood vessels, first with her lips, then with the backs of her fingers, gradually acquainting him with her. He drones another appreciative tone, though less audibly than before. Suddenly conscious as he is of overarticulating his pleasure, he bites his teeth in the vain hope of remaining somewhat composed. His consequent stream of a few muffled sounds strikes her, and she smirks from within at his needless discretion.

Parting her lips just enough, she exhales her breath over him while leaving a moist, open-mouthed kiss near the base of his girth. He trembles, gritting his teeth even harder. Continuing with her kisses, she begins working her way up along him, tracing her fingertips across him in meandering patterns as she progresses. His jaw slackens and he writhes against the bed, feeling a further rush of blood coursing into his groin. As he grows still hotter, still firmer, she hums a reflexive moan in delight of his responses. The resulting vibrations resound through him, eliciting a low groan from the pit of his throat.

Urging more of his communicativeness, she flattens her hand against him, running her palm and her lips up and down the sides of his fiery rigidity.

"Unh…" he moans, deeply and huskily, his concern with propriety rapidly fading away.

She wraps her fingers all the way around him and adjusts her position as she nears the height of his desire, flushed from and engorged with blood. Carefully, she skims her tongue around the thin, delicate fold just beneath his tip. He draws in another sharp breath, and she withdraws, content to wait until he's further acclimated.

The rises and falls of his chest stagger as he feels her drift farther upward and extend her tongue to him again. Gently, she teases away the initial traces of his longing, trickling out onto his skin. Closing her eyes, she spreads the first hints of him across her palate, memorizing the sweet, mellow quality of his taste. She sighs her appreciation against him, and as she leans farther down toward his flesh, she's as certain as she's ever been that she'll never get enough of him - of this.

He gasps and his entire body seizes when he feels the circle of her lips surrounding him. His heart skips, his nerve-endings pique as his mind and body contend with the torrent of new sensations. Mindful of overwhelming him, she takes her time familiarizing him with the textures of her mouth - the smooth ridges of her hard palate, the soft expanses of her cheeks and tongue.

Immersed in wetness and warmth, he croons her name as she begins an easy rhythm. His volume increases with her every ministration, and he senses his baser instincts surmounting his apprehensions. Still hesitant, though, he balks at the searing tingles running down his legs and through his toes, down his arms and through his fingers. But then, as she varies her tempo, the clasps of his hands, which he previously tried to relax, tighten once again. Torn between his need to hold onto her and his worry that perhaps he shouldn't, he squeezes his eyes further shut and struggles for a resolution.

Just as his anxiety begins to manifest, her words of comfort come to his mind and he reminds himself to breathe. Deeply, he inhales, filling his lungs with balmy, lightly scented air. He instantly recognizes the fragrance of her shampoo and conditioner, absorbed into the case of the pillow on which his head rests. But, underlying the artificial bouquet of her hair products, he can still discern the alluring notes that are naturally and distinctly hers. Focusing on those subtle identifiers, he takes in and lets out several more breaths.

Soon enough, his nerves calm, leaving little else to occupy him other than the raptures flowing through his body. She alters her position and approach once more, swirling her tongue across the patch of skin that was too sensitive to attend minutes ago. He moans headily, the full force of his delectation carrying his gruff voice, and unconsciously rubs his fingers into the base of her scalp and the back of her hand.

Something within him tells him to let her go, to reach for some other anchor. And yet, something far more instinctual, far more fundamental urges him not to. "Oh, my god," he huffs, weary of the war he's been fighting for far too long.

He could ask her for a reprieve of some kind, he well knows. And without a word, she'd sympathize with why. But he can't. No words, no sounds come except the endless succession of gasps and whimpers escaping his lips. No gestures, no actions come except the approving caresses of his hands as they wander along her arm and down the nape of her neck. Thus, with neither the will nor the capacity to conceive of an alternative to his present moment, he does the only thing he can do, and gives in.

The second his lingering disquiet leaves his body, she feels it. The wrenched muscles in his stomach and legs release, and he melts all the way into the bed. She wonders for a moment whether he's willingly conceding to his desire or he's simply reached a point where he has no other option. If his steadily more expressive responses are indicative of one explanation or the other, then she suspects the latter to be more accurate than the former. But she's little time to dwell on such thoughts as the fire at her own core begins to spread in consequence of his plainly evident gratification.

She sits up a little higher on her hip and presses her thighs together, trying to quell her reaction to his fingertips roaming her scalp and inner wrist, and his smooth, swollen girth sliding against the highly sensitive surfaces of her lips and tongue. When her efforts fail her, she moans against him, as much from need as from want.

"God, Lois…" he shudders, in disbelief that anything could feel more affirming or more wondrous than her trilling exhales.

Relishing the unabashed tenor of his articulations, she manages to shift the entirety of her focus back to him. Eager to indulge him, to satisfy him further, she breaks her rhythm and ignores his subsequent groan of discontent. He starts to worry that something's the matter, but he's prevented from doing so by her hand descending to the underside of his length. As she cradles and caresses him, she relaxes her throat and sinks down over him. His breath catches as he awes at the feeling of himself slipping farther and farther past her lips, until the curves of her mouth reach his base.

Enveloping him, she begins slowly, gauging his reactions to various manners of touch. Before long, she finds the pace and pressure best suited to him.

Back and forth, around and again, she continues in an entrancing, ever-intensifying rhythm that entices his desire toward its inevitable conclusion.

"Unh…"

Awash in, transported by her lavish attentions, he rasps her name over and over as the lowest parts of him constrict and a distinctive tingling radiates outward from deep within his belly. Feeling his thighs tremble, she withdraws from him enough to wrap her fingers back around him.

"Oh, god…"

His entire body quivers and writhes as she moves her mouth and hand in tandem, moaning with him as his end begins. Clinging to her hand, her hair, he breathes in a final time as every muscle in him tightens and strains. And then, with a force that overtakes his every reservation, he exhales, pushing out from his core and surging forth across her palate. Persisting, she kneads him steadily through his contractions, drawing out his ecstasy until he collapses into the bed.

The next few minutes progress slowly for him. Unable to move, hardly able to think, he comprehends very little beyond the blissful numbness affecting every inch of his body, every corner of his psyche. At some point, he even questions whether he's still fully conscious, in view of how outside himself he feels.

In time, the atmosphere around him begins to register again. But, rather than the quiet flickers of the candles or the now-sultry quality of the air, various other minutiae pervade his cognizance. The thrum of blood pulsing through dilated arteries and veins, the pheromonal allure of sweat covering heated skin - wave upon wave of the signatures of her arousal drift through his inexplicably hyperaware mind. How he can involuntarily perceive the things he usually has to attempt to discern, he's not certain. Although, considering the transcendent state in which he finds himself, his susceptibility to the nuances of her physiology doesn't seem quite so implausible.

Finally endeavoring to move, he slides his eyes around behind their hoods and stretches out his fingers. As he recognizes the slope of her lower back against his hands and suddenly makes out the outline of her lips against his temple, he tries to recall when she made her way back up his torso, but he discovers his memories clouded by the haze of the last little while.

"You taste like summer," she murmurs against his skin, prompted by his evident return to lucidity.

He smiles in response to her sentiment and lifts his lids. As she continues dotting kisses to the side of his face, he notices her ruddy complexion and wonders how she's able to maintain so calm a countenance when her need is so palpable. Maybe she's just ignoring it, he supposes, as he turns his head to capture her lips.

Smirking, she slips just out of his reach. "You don't mind?"

"Why would I mind?" he asks in a hoarse tone, as he lifts a hand from her back and runs his fingers through her hair.

She chuckles a bit at his gravelly timbre, choosing to disregard whether he should be so affected by the strain to his voice, and lets him ease her lips down to his. The depth of their ensuing kiss takes her by surprise, but she doesn't resist his thorough, almost coaxing lead. Her pulse strengthens between her legs, and, contrary to what she'd expect from herself, the backs of her eyes begin to swell with moisture. Breathless, she retreats from their kiss and clears her throat, stemming the latter of her responses to his affection.

"Do you want something to drink?" she offers, glancing toward the glass of water on her nightstand and angling for a brief diversion.

He brushes his lips across the corner of her mouth and guides her eyes back to his. "I want to touch you," he whispers, holding her gaze.

As she takes his meaning, he hears her heart flutter and he watches a series of bald emotions play across her features. The viscerality of her reaction concerns him, and he starts to inquire as to her thoughts. But, before he can, she blinks away her discomposure, and quietly replies, "Are you asking me?"

For a moment, he hesitates, considering whether to answer her question or to ask his own. Ultimately, however, he decides that whatever the cause of the brief lull in her equanimity, she seems fine now. Besides, he tells himself, perhaps he's sensationalizing things because of how overly receptive he presently is to her signals.

Suppressing what he's sure she'd characterize as his fussy nature, he addresses her query. "Yeah, I am."

She licks and then chews her lower lip, regarding him in silence for several seconds. Without doubt, she reasons, he hasn't had time to think through what transpired minutes ago. As feverish as he was, as conflicted as she knows he felt at times, he still managed to defy his trepidations and to maintain his contact with her. And whether he realizes it or not, that feat must be what's emboldened him to propose that which she didn't expect their first night to entail. Nevertheless, even if he hasn't yet fully reconciled himself to his intuitive behaviors, his willingness to continue trying speaks to the fact that, on some level, his mentality is indeed changing.

Setting aside her ruminations, she allows her longing to shine through as she replies, "Just for the record: You don't have to do that."

"Do what?"

"Ask me."

"I know," he gently assures her, tilting his head up to press his mouth to the dip beneath her ear.

Her eyes fall closed and a whimper flows past her parted lips. Firmly, he massages his fingers into and across the small of her back, while running his lips and his tongue around and behind her lobe. She feels herself flush with further warmth, and she exhales a plaintive sigh, hoping that he doesn't intend to make her wait.

"Will you show me?"

Barely able to make out his question over the sound of her pulse in her head, she shakily asks, "Show you?"

"Help me," he clarifies.

She softly chuckles in disbelief, amusing herself with the notion that he heard her unspoken plea. But, as he winds his hand deeper into her hair and nibbles at the back of her ear, a thought occurs to her. "Are you reading me?"

"Not on purpose," he tells her, growing fretful about her feelings on the matter. Withdrawing his mouth and finding her gaze, he offers, "But maybe I could sorta block it out if I try hard enough."

"Don't."

Assuaged by her simple reply, he inclines his chin to kiss her once more. She pulls away, though. And, after giving him a pointed, solicitous look, she begins shifting off of him and onto the bed.

As she turns onto her side, facing away from him, he follows after her, vaguely noting the heaviness in his limbs and torso as he changes position. When he's nestled his body behind hers and draped an arm across her stomach, she reaches over her shoulder and grasps the back of his neck. He lets her pull him down to her, and he meets her lips with his.

Deliberately, he focuses his considerations on the supple contours of her mouth, while sweeping his hand over her trim abdomen and full breasts. She arches back into him, mewling in delight and squeezing his disheveled locks.

Soon enough, he feels her releasing his hair and then skimming her nails down his forearm. She threads her fingers into his and rests her ankle on the side of his calf. Understanding her cue, he slips his leg between hers and lifts his knee, widening the space between her thighs. The draft created by their shifting about breezes across her delicate, freshly exposed skin, sending a shiver through her. Her lips shudder and he inhales her accompanying whimper, as she draws his hand down her stomach, over her hip, and up along her inner thigh.

He gasps and she sighs when they reach the moisture dampening her flesh. Centering him against her, she gradually runs his fingers through her folds, coating them in silken heat. Sparked by her desire, his vigor renews and his eagerness to attend and appease her manifests in a subtle contraction down his arms, prompting his instinct to pull her closer. But, reminding himself of the purpose to his present deference, he channels his energy away from its principal object and presses his tongue deeper into her mouth.

Languidly, she guides his hand, allowing him to rediscover her textures and terrain, and to learn her responses to so evocative a manner of contact. Listening to her hushed sounds, noting her slight movements, he gathers every one of the details that their initial wanderings afford and patiently awaits her inevitable need for more direct an approach.

After a short while, her breath catches as they near the highest and most sensitive part of her, occasioning that which he anticipated. Unable to maintain their kiss any longer, she retreats from his lips and surrenders to her natural inclinations, initiating the patterns and pace that she's fallen into many times before, while lying alone in her bed and imagining a night such as this.

Her eyes closed, she commits to memory the sensation of her touch as his. The breadth of his palm, the length of his fingers - each of his characteristics that contrast with hers heightens her awareness of the reality in which she's immersed. And yet, to have him like this - his body surrounding hers, his mouth winding across her neck - stirs within her the feelings that she barely managed to rein in some time ago. She slows her rhythm, balking at the budding re-emergence of so many emotions and at the possibility of their unwelcome expression. But, before the fear of losing herself to the depths of her regard for him can entirely take hold, his hand shifting beneath hers diverts her attention.

Softly, he traces his way up and then back down her flesh, gauging her reaction. When her grasp on his hand lets up, he recognizes it as an approving gesture, and continues.

Leaving a trail of kisses from the base of her throat to the curve of her jaw, he circles his fingertips against her, imitating her motions from just moments before. "Like this?" he whispers into her ear, increasing his pressure just enough for emphasis.

She hums a scarcely intelligible affirmation, lolling her head back onto his shoulder and aimlessly grazing the space between the back of his wrist and his knuckles. Encouraged by her reply, he smiles against her skin, while maintaining his easy, kneading ministrations.

His body warms as she relaxes into him farther, letting him take his time with her, letting him convey the tenderness that is based not in any notion of apprehension or uncertainty, but in his conviction that it's what she deserves. For him, it's not enough that she merely see and hear his devotion; he wants her to feel it, too - to know that the range of their experiences matters as much to him as it does to her, and that their present tenor is beyond neither his capacity nor his inclination.

As he glides across her middle, her stomach flutters and she presses down into his grasp. In response, he constricts the range of his motions, lingering over and around the source of her heat. She rocks against him, bidding him deeper, but as she feels a concurrent moan threatening to surface, she reflexively bites her lip to prevent it from so doing. Still, in spite of her effort, the remains of her articulation, a burning rasp, makes its way to his ears, reawakening the concerns he previously put to rest.

She's holding on to something, of that he's now convinced. But of what it is and of how best to approach helping her to let it go, he's not sure. Indeed, the only thing he knows with any certainty is that which her writhing hips seem perfectly willing to convey.

She whimpers in disappointment upon feeling his movements cease and his hand slipping away from her. Just as she begins to protest, though, his voice enters the air, entreating, "Turn around."

Obligingly, she does as he asks, shifting about within the circle of his arms until she's lying on her side, facing him. He greets her with an indulgent kiss, paying particular attention to the rosy extent of her lower lip, due to its having endured the clench of her teeth. Her hands threaded into his hair, her thigh draped over his waist, she presses her chest into his, holding him to her as closely as possible.

Quietly, he reiterates his prior appeal while caressing the shorn, downy vee between her hips. For his answer, she melds her mouth to his again and reaches for his hand. He opens his eyes to watch her face, as she slowly draws him back down through her folds and poises the tips of two fingers at the core of her desire.

An expression of what he recognizes as both relief and elation overspreads her features the moment she presses upward, easing him inside of her.

"Aah…" she softly exhales, her chin shuddering.

His breaths falter and his groin tightens as her fiery billows yield to his touch, inviting him still deeper, almost as if to assure him that he's exactly where he belongs.

Gently, she withdraws him a bit, before guiding him forward once more and slightly turning his wrist. He blinks his eyes and takes in as much air as possible, trying to steady himself and to focus on the mode of her actions. Yet, he's hardly had time enough to regain his bearings when she unexpectedly releases his hand.

He hesitates for a moment, reeling from having been left to his own will. But, as she curls her fingers around the base of his scalp and entices his lips back to hers, he's reminded of her trust in him - in his understanding and instincts. Emboldened by her gesture, he thus suppresses his doubts, brushing his tongue across hers as he carefully begins.

Swirling here, swaying there, he explores her, studying her responses and the subtleties therein - the pitch of her voice as he advances, the tremblings down her legs as he retreats. His mind inflames, set alight by his ever-intensifying sense of her need, and, somewhere within, he registers the results of his internal pique. But neither the sweat down his back, the pounding of his heart, nor any of the other signifiers of his present condition manages to inspire more than an inchoate and ephemeral thought, as he finds himself entirely enthralled by the elevating temperature and swelling surfaces of her longing.

"You're so warm…" he breathlessly remarks against her lips, powerless as he is to contain his wonder. "So soft…"

A further flush of arousal wets her flesh as she absorbs the ingenuousness and the generosity of his sentiments. In the past, she imagined he'd be reticent - quiet, even - given circumstances such as those of the present. And yet, to both her surprise and her delight, she's found him to be as vocal in his appreciation of her now as he would be at any other time. Perhaps she should have foreseen that his openness would translate here just as it has into every other sphere of their relationship, for with only two exceptions - one, which was resolved in the middle of an open field three months ago; the other, on a vacant rooftop several weeks prior to that - he's never failed to assure her of how highly he thinks of her or of how deeply he feels for her. But then, it could be just as likely that his expressiveness only seems so marked in contrast to the inhibition she chose to not expect of herself.

After maintaining their kiss for as long as she can, she breaks away from it when he discovers a cadence to which she particularly responds. As her breathing becomes a succession of increasingly heavy sighs, punctuated by the occasional gasp or whimper, he lowers his lips to the hollow of her throat and presses forward enough to coax the backs of her shoulders onto the bed.

With his torso above hers and their legs entwined, she basks in the glow of his affections, relishing how attuned he is to her. Fleetingly, she wonders how someone with as far-reaching, as complex a life as his can shut out every other care so completely - how he can touch her as if there's no world beyond that of their embrace. Still, despite having only occurred to her for an instant, her musings somehow trigger a vague sense of remembrance. She's felt this way, exactly this way, before. As swept up by him, as rapt by his proximity. Nevertheless, she can't begin to suppose why of all the moments between them, she'd settle on one with which she sometimes struggles - not for it in and of itself, but for its immediate aftermath. Subsequent to another second or two of contemplation, however, she begins to suspect the basis for her seemingly disconnected thoughts. But no, she tells herself as she cuts short her acknowledgement of the parallel. That doesn't make any sense.

"What doesn't?"

His question, murmured absently against her collarbone, catches her unawares. When she therefore offers no reply, he repeats himself more clearly.

"What doesn't make any sense?"

A deep blush blooms across her cheeks as she realizes that she must have given voice to the conclusion of her interior monologue. Her mind whirling, she tries to come up with something to say that will satisfy his curiosity, without amounting to a flat-out lie. Before she can, though, he perceives the slightly elevated degree radiating from the sides of her face, and he immediately comprehends that her words, though welcome to him, were in fact unintended for his ears. Briefly, he considers asking her outright as to the import of her utterance, but he quickly dismisses the notion for fear of pressing her too hard on something she's apparently not yet ready to address.

Deciding on a more circuitous approach, he slows his rhythm and lifts his head from her chest. Having braced herself for an interrogation, she mewls gratefully as he captures her lips in a pacifying kiss.

Before long, she forgets her unease and gives herself back over to him, sliding a hand along his upper arm and rubbing the pad of her foot into the crook of his knee to encourage, at the very least, a return to his previous pace. Happy for the reaction on which he was counting, he slips just out of the reach of her mouth and takes advantage of her lowered defenses, whispering, "Talk to me."

"Hmm?" she replies, pursuing him.

"Tell me what you want."

"More…"

He beams from the inside out upon hearing her engage him with something other than a subdued intonation. "Will you be uncomfortable?" he checks, continuing to speak to a plane of her consciousness baser than the one fraught by her anxieties.

Without hesitation, she reaches farther down his arm and into the space between her legs, telling him, "No."

He remains still as her grasp finds his and she guides another of his fingers inside her. Her limits expand to accommodate the dimensions of his touch, and then compress snugly enough to hold him within.

She exhales shakily.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

Pressing her lips to his, she nods as she wraps her arms around his shoulders. Assured, he reciprocates her kiss and gently stirs his fingertips. She hums her pleasure, arching into his chest and writhing against his palm.

Gingerly, he follows the swerves of her hips, rolling his wrist as he glides back and forth. She runs a hand up his neck and grips his hair, whimpering in time with his long, fluid strokes. The tremors from her mouth reverberate against his and echo down into his belly. He groans, both overtaken and staggered by the sensation of himself hardening all over again. Yet, as he recalls how beset he became when last her satisfaction was his to give, a shade of doubt clouds his thoughts and he breaks their momentum.

Breathing her plea across his lips in a sigh, she implores him, "Don't stop…"

He only just manages to make her out, but the second he does, the gloom cast over his mind dissipates, for regardless of in how quiet a manner she does so, she's at least begun to enunciate. And that, given his concern for her ease and his wish for her abandon, he doesn't take lightly. Thus, refocusing on the faith in him that she continues to convey, he sets aside his misgivings and begins once more.

Steadily, they seek out and rebuild their rhythm. Pushing and pulling. Time and again.

Her breasts heave more rapidly against his chest. Her fingers dig harder into his scalp and back.

As he happens across a tiny area more delicate than any other, she reflexively moans, tearing her mouth from his and dragging her nails from behind his shoulder. He winces a bit from the thrilling sting, but suppresses his own response in consideration of hers.

Smoothly, he withdraws one of his fingers and curls the tips of his two others. "Here?" he asks her, pressing up against a swollen, ribbed patch.

Her head thrown back and her body on fire, she softly rasps, "God, yes…"

Spurred by her most emphatic expression yet, he persists, trailing his lips down her bared throat and moving within her in tighter, firmer, faster circles. But, as a telling tremor begins to ripple through her thighs and her back bows higher off the bed, he perceives the first in a series of pangs radiating down his forearm and into the back of his hand. His muscles wearying, he buries his brow in the curve of her neck and huffs from exertion. As he strains to work through the pain, to maintain their pace for a few moments longer, his hearing hones in on her racing pulse, offering him just enough of a diversion.

She sways down into him one last time, clutching his hair and his upper arm, clinging to him as the searing energy that's been building throughout her peaks. He braces himself likewise, staying his ministrations and relishing the nuances of her release: The ardor of her gasps… The convulsions of her core… The rush of warmth spreading across his palm…

His mind abuzz and skin ablaze, he follows her collapsing torso back onto the bed, panting with her while he struggles to regain some semblance of his composure. Very soon, though, he senses her hold on him relaxing and her hand sliding down his arm to his wrist. His heart sinks as her flutterings subside and she gradually begins to draw him away from her. Already missing the luscious pressure of her surrounding him, he considers saying something to dissuade her. Alas, lacking the breath to take any such exception, he simply opens his eyes and watches as his grasp emerges with hers into the small space between them.

The sodden, gleaming surfaces of his hand instantly capture his gaze. Enthralled, he starts to run the pad of his thumb along the length of his fingers, but a sharp ache seizes the joints and sinews therein, and shoots all the way up to his elbow. He grimaces, making a fist and then stretching it out, trying to soothe the remarkable soreness he feels. While so doing, he chances to discern the glossy texture of the dampness trickling over his palm and down onto his forearm. His discomfort all but forgotten, he marvels at the thin dew and glances around her inner thighs to discover more of the same sheen there as well. Instinctively, he wonders at its taste, only to have his thoughts derailed by her suddenly pressing against his chest and turning him over.

Her lips fall swiftly and insistently upon his, catching him off guard as his back lands on the bed. Rallying, he welcomes her tongue with his and reaches for her waist, helping her to situate her knees on either side of him. In the midst of lifting his arms, though, the confluence of both exhilaration and exhaustion suffusing every part of his body finally strikes him, and he begins to understand how unequal he is to contending with his wrought state for much longer. Still, no matter the prospect of his limitations, he can't resist urging her nearer to him.

Circling a hand around his neck and winding her tongue deeper into his mouth, she sits back across his groin. As she settles upon him, her plush folds meet his firm girth, and he lowers his hands to her hips, pressing against them. Coaxed by his gesture, she rocks down and then back up, gliding slowly and easily along him. To her dismay, though, he responds with a violent shudder and a desperate groan.

Opening her eyes and pulling away from him, she worries, "What is it? What's wrong?"

As quickly as he's currently able to, he leans up from his supine position and wraps his hands around her thighs, keeping her from shuffling off of him. "Nothing," he says, his breaths still ragged. "I'm fine."

"I've heard that before," she points out, nervously tucking a wayward lock behind her ear.

Indulging her skepticism, he waits while she briefly scrutinizes him for herself, checking for any sign of the bruises and abrasions that marred him earlier. After having assuaged her alarm by finding nothing distressing, she lingers on the only discernible breaks in his skin.

He follows her line-of-sight to his shoulder and glimpses the thin welts left by her nails. Anticipating her thoughts, he grasps her arms and drapes them back around his neck, telling her, "It doesn't feel any worse than it looks."

She contemplates his reassurance as she widens the focus of her gaze, taking in the arresting extent of his complexion's sweat-slicked glow. Caught by the lure of his appearance, she shifts off of her knees and peers into his eyes, asking, "How positive are you?"

"At least one hundred percent," he replies, gathering her in his arms and folding his legs underneath her.

Contented, she lets him draw her farther into his lap. Their chests meet, as do the base of his desire and the apex of hers. Accepting his kiss, she crosses her ankles behind his back and hugs him closer. He groans again, though less harshly than he did so a moment ago, as the moistures coating her flesh spread along his. Finding him less severely affected than before, she rolls her hips down into him, and smiles in appreciation when his fingers descend to and coil across her backside.

With her weight supported in his arms and hands, she writhes freely and leisurely against him. Entranced by her motions, he sighs headily and presses his tongue past her lips. She receives his advance with alacrity, cradling the back of his head and tilting hers farther to one side, as the sumptuous friction between them escalates.

At some point, she registers a slight tremble from his shoulders down to his palms, but then dismisses it as incidental when it soon passes. Shortly thereafter, though, his instability returns, becoming both more pronounced and more prolonged.

Slowing her rhythm and slipping away from his mouth, she whispers, "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," he answers, reinitiating their kiss in the vain hope of her giving up her pursuit of the matter.

She runs a hand down to his bicep to make sure she's not imagining things. Having verified her initial observation, she edges against his lips, "You're shaking."

"I'm okay."

His adamant response only sharpens her suspicion, and she promptly concludes that he's in denial about something. "Wait, wait…" she tells him a second later, halting her every movement as an extraordinary notion occurs to her. "Are you… Are you _tired_?" A wide grin stretches across her face as he ignores her question and declines his mouth to the side of her throat. Growing more amused by the second, she arches into him and lifts her ankles higher up his back, teasing, "Super-stamina, my ass. How much do you think I weigh compared to a high-rise?"

"Lois -"

"- You know, your ego is outrageous. If you need a break, just say so," she chuckles, leaning away from him as he tries to silence her with a kiss.

His voice gruff, he reaches for her lips again, insisting, "Come here."

She giggles harder. "Is that an order, Kent?"

"Yes."

"But you didn't say 'please.'"

No sooner has she finished her quip than she finds herself being picked up off of his lap and tackled onto the pillows near the head of the bed. Tickled all the more, she resists his retaliation, hooking an arm firmly around the back of his neck and refusing to let up. Her laughter spurs him on in spite of both his depleted condition and his better judgment, as he tries with little success to subdue her. After some scuffling, he manages to pry apart her grip. Nevertheless, he's hardly begun to calculate his next move when she loops one of her legs over his shoulder and the other under his arm, and locks a foot behind her opposite knee.

Stuck within the triangular grasp of her calve and thighs, he grumbles in exasperation.

"You are so bad at this," she taunts, holding his brow to her stomach with her hands.

"I wasn't raised to wrestle women."

"Hasn't stopped you from picking fights with me."

"You don't count."

"Oh, really?" she asks, rolling over and taking him with her.

"Ah!" he complains, the crown of his head pressed into the bed. "Fight fair."

"Fight better."

Shoving her hips into his shoulder, she sits up onto her knees and forces him onto his back. Sprawled out beneath her, he glances up her body to see her looking smugly down at him.

"Had enough?"

Defiantly, he fumbles about, trying to stretch far enough to get a decent grip on one of her legs. Inevitably, the volume of her mirth only amplifies further as she watches him struggle and wonders if he'll ever accept that his bulk can be less of a help and more of a hindrance when countered with her agility.

Recognizing the familiar smirk on her face and intuiting the musings that it signifies, he maintains, "I'm letting you win."

"You always say that."

"It's always true."

"Liar."

"Bully."

"You started it."

"That's mature."

"Says the grown man who can't even admit to being tir - Hey!"

She loses her thought and her center of gravity when he attempts a more useful maneuver, pushing against the front of her stomach and toppling her off of his chest. Much to her chagrin, her subsequent wobbling allows him to wriggle out of her trap and to sit up onto his knees. Having not yet even fully regained her balance, she lunges at him, throwing her arms around his shoulders and trying to knock him over. But, for once, his size works in his favor. Holding his ground, he absorbs her driving blow and reaches behind her to pull her legs out from under her. She shouts something indignant as she begins to tumble backward, and he laughs derisively at her as he feels himself on the verge of a rare victory.

She goes with their fall, confident in the knowledge that he'd never let her land awkwardly, and, sure enough, they hit the bed with one of his arms cradling her back. Intending to exploit his gallantry, she blindly scrabbles for a pillow and quickly acquires one above her head. Before she can whack him, though, he catches her wrist, pins it down, and then rashly tries for the kiss he's yet to achieve.

Just short of her lips, he's stopped cold by the hand he neglected to restrain seizing a fistful of his hair.

"You just can't help yourself, can you?"

Perhaps it's the sharp tug across his scalp that intensifies his reception of her accompanying remark, but whatever the cause, her question, though posed in jest, pierces its way deeper into his psyche than it would have otherwise. That conceit, he realizes, he's heard manifest itself more than once over the last few hours. And while he didn't appreciate the underlying significance to her various mentions - some forthright, others not - when she initially made them, he now sees it with perfect clarity.

She's often given him grief about the manner in which he kissed her for the first time only because of her discomfort with the circumstances under which he did it. For long moments, she stood with him in front of her desk, just as oblivious as he was to the existence of anything beyond their embrace. Soon enough, though, a round of whistles and jeers from a number of their colleagues obtruded upon her awareness. Startled, she pulled away from him. Then, in so hurried a manner that he hardly had time to register her stricken expression, she grabbed her things, rushed off, and spent the next two weeks out of town, ignoring his phone calls.

He didn't understand at the time that she was avoiding their workplace as much as she was avoiding him. He didn't understand that, without any real assurance as to his intentions, even the kind of physical affection that she'd never discourage once they were together was disconcerting when offered in view of prying eyes.

The early parts of their relationship, however, posed more questions than they did answers as to where and why her lines were drawn. On one occasion, he complimented her while they were in the company of a group of mutual friends that'd gathered for a game night, only to receive from her a sarcastic aside and a humorless punch to his shoulder in reply. On another occasion, he delivered a sentimental toast at the surprise birthday party he planned for her, only to have her disappear from the festivities soon afterward.

Disheartened, he mistook her behaviors as a sign of uncertainty about them, and it was that notion of doubt that long kept him from definitively affirming his regard for her. When he eventually did, it was only by accident. They were fighting. He was losing ground. And, in desperation, he shouted the three words that he'd been choking down for months. Their argument thus came to an abrupt halt, as she, her face stricken all over again, left him standing alone atop the roof of their office building, convinced that when next they spoke at length, it'd be the last time they did so as a couple.

Despite being displeased by it, he expected the distance at which she kept him for the rest of the day and for many more after that; he'd at least learned by then what the consequence of his miscues with her would always be. What he didn't expect, though, was the end to which she put his exile, when she grabbed his arm the second he walked into the bullpen one morning and dragged him back to the roof. In a state of bewilderment, he watched and listened to her as she paced around, rattling off an apology that he only just followed, for fear of it being a mere pretense to her tearing them asunder. After which, he nearly fell over from astonishment and relief when she finished her ramble by pulling him down into an earnest kiss, and then reciprocating his avowal in a whisper across his lips.

He didn't wonder after that. He understood that regardless of her posturing, she embarrassed as easily as he did, just about a very different matter.

Even so, what her latest allusion has brought to light is that while his reveal to her several weeks subsequent to their rooftop interlude did indeed effect a fundamental change in their relationship, it didn't do the same for that which is inherent to her nature. Whereas he'll tell anyone who'll listen how much she means to him, she could count on one hand the number of people with whom she feels comfortable discussing what he means to her. Whereas he has no reserves about laying bare his feelings to her, she continues to struggle with expressing a similar degree of emotional abandon around him, even under the most private and conducive of circumstances - even now.

Confused by him responding to her most recent tactics with nothing but stillness and silence, she loosens the grip of her hand. "Was that too hard? Did I hurt you?"

He smiles a bit and shakes his head.

"What then?" she presses, unnerved by the serenity that's begun to settle over his countenance.

He nearly laughs as he considers her persistence. This is, after all, the woman who'll scarcely give a second thought to voicing any concerns she has for him, any assurances she thinks he needs, and any mockery she's convinced he deserves, but who, from the dread of seeming selfish, will sooner find him a home, offer him a shared bed, and treat him to an entire day of her undivided attention, than simply tell him straight out that she's missed him.

After another brief interval of quietude, she shifts anxiously and repeats her question. He chuckles, watching her squirm under the focus of his gaze, and feels himself enchanted all the more by the same irritability, the same eccentricity that he first began falling for years ago. But, before her determination for an answer can morph into a hostile pursuit, he decides that perhaps the only way to help her overcome her insecurities is to address the latent conflict that she's long experienced, and to make plain that which he's thus far left unsaid.

"I have a confession."

The solemnity of his ultimate reply takes her further aback, and her heart wavers as she watches his eyes darken. Sensing the blithe atmosphere of their past few minutes giving way to the gravity of whatever's on his mind, she makes a futile attempt at circumvention: "You've been faking the whole alien-superhero thing?"

He delays his response for a pointed moment, conveying to her that there's no way around or out of her position. When she exhales a subtle breath of acquiescence, he reaches his unoccupied hand behind his head, threads his fingers into hers, and slides her palm around to his cheek.

Her lips part and her blood ignites as she feels exactly what she's meant to - his raw, feral heat. Seeing that she's understood him, he lowers his voice to a rumbling timbre as he speaks directly to one of her less forgiving reactions to his ill-timed impetuosity. "Earlier, you yelled at me for trying to kiss you while you were upset. I told you that I was trying to calm you down. That wasn't the truth."

Though almost afraid to do so, she nevertheless asks, "So what was?"

Holding her gaze, he takes her hand from his cheek and presses it back onto the bed, next to its counterpart. "There are some things that get you so angry - so worked up and so beyond reason," he quietly explains, looming over her with carnal menace. "And when you lose it like you did tonight, you remind me that I'm one of them - that I make you as crazy as you make me… I've never wanted anything like I want you."

Only when she reflexively inhales several moments later does she realize that she's forgotten to breathe, for his acknowledgment - an overture, really - leaves her with a choice that couldn't be more clear or more essential. She could demur; she could retreat behind a veil of false humor and refuse to engage what he's brought to the fore. Or, she could answer him in kind, and in so doing confirm the truth undergirding his sentiments - that his passions, in all their sweeping, upending force, are also hers. But to commit to the latter would moreover mean admitting why she's at times shrunk from or begrudged him his advances. It's not the physicality that unsettles her, but the heightened and therefore irrepressible emotions that are necessarily entailed when she's already beside herself because of him.

And yet…

And yet, she's longed for this night - the textures, the colors, the honesty, the intimacy, all of which he's realized for her. In the midst of such a setting and in the presence of such a man, denial seems somehow ignoble. Thus, she finds herself not only accepting the offer he's made her just now but also honoring the request she made of him not long ago, and simply tries.

The kiss with which she conveys her assent takes her halfway across the distance separating him from her. He leans down to welcome her gesture, and then, after a moment, presses forward and eases her back onto the bed.

She sighs softly, her affections stirred by her having been met not with desperation or hunger, but with the same reverence, the same tenderness that he's shown her since she first entered his wondrous world.

Consciously, she tightens the grasp of her hands in his as she endeavors to resist suppressing the feelings swelling within her. Empathizing with her apprehension, he glides his tongue across her faintly trembling lower lip and entices her thoughts to a more pleasing focus. His diversion quickly achieves its end, and she soon after begins whimpering into his mouth and rocking her hips up into him.

He releases her hands, and she takes the opportunity to wrap them around his head and to deepen their kiss still farther. He appeases her persistence for several moments, but eventually starts to pull away. She blinks her eyes open in disappointment and gazes at him in question. Without a word, he slides a hand down her waist and nudges against the back of her hip, effectively communicating his answer.

She hesitates as she considers the significance to that which he intends. But, coaxing her through her indecision, he tells her in a compassionate tone, "I'm right here."

After another second's delay, she manages to take his reassurance to heart and lets him help her over onto her stomach. As she lies out underneath him and props herself up on her forearms, he pushes away the various pillows nearest to them, leaving only her own. Instinctually, she pulls the familiar item to her chest and holds onto it in lieu of him.

Her breathing unsteady, her body piqued as much from arousal as from anxiety, she closes her eyes and tries to will her mind to a place as tranquil as that of her surroundings. As he stretches out over her, though, she finds herself all the more unsettled. Under any other circumstances, his imposing form would assuage her, comfort her. But this moment is unlike the many that have preceded it. Now, as a warm hand and an even warmer gaze slowly wander her shoulders and back, she feels every bit of the vulnerability in being so situated.

As her uneasiness gets the better of her, she edges, "You're staring."

He nuzzles and breathes in her tousled curls, his resolve unshaken. "What gave me away?" he asks, in a voice absent any hint of repentance.

"You got quiet."

"Do you wanna know what I'm thinking about?"

She nods, and he proceeds to brush her hair away from her neck and to lean down far enough to whisper into her ear.

"Your kindness. Your warmth… How strong you are. How gentle you can be…" he says to her, running a hand along her side as he reciprocates her earlier admirations of him. When he notices a corner of her mouth coiling slightly upward, he leaves a soft kiss to her cheek, before lowering his voice a bit more, and adding, "There's nothing about you that I'd ever change, Lois… You're perfect."

If not for her lowered lids, the tears presently threatening to fill her eyes would surely succeed. However, in reaching for the back of his head and turning hers to find his lips, she leaves herself no time to consider how she'd handle so naked a display.

He greets her with indulgence, offering her the kind of prolonged, meaningful touches that ultimately take her breath away. She withdraws from him with a gasp, and their eyes meet. His pulse staggers as he catches sight of something he's never quite seen from her before. Something aching. Something absolute. Something as yet unbestowed. In an instant, though, his glimpse passes as she takes her hand from his hair and turns to bare her throat to him.

Requiring no further inducement, he winds his way down the nape of her neck and between the blades of her shoulders. Yielding to him more with each passing second, she settles onto the pillow folded up in her arms as he continues his gradual descent, pressing his lips here, grazing his teeth there. When he comes to the small of her back, he lingers, tracing the tapering, sloping musculature, while stroking her sides and legs.

Her low hums and muffled rasps amplify as his hands spread across her backside, followed shortly thereafter by his mouth. Massaging, caressing the length and breadth of her curves, he steadily fans her inner flame until she begins to writhe from want.

To her vexation, though, he progresses his attentions no farther, deliberately denying her the contact she most needs. Feverish, she arches up and back, seeking him out. Still, he refuses, choosing instead to maintain his current focus and tenor.

Doubtless as to and no less exasperated by his purpose, she sharply exhales, extends her arms in order to clench the edge of the bed, and buries her brow in her pillow.

"…Please," she quietly shudders after a weighty moment, very nearly conceding that for which he's still waiting. "Please, touch me…"

Nonetheless incited by her articulation, he drifts closer to her heat, while lying down between her parted legs and reaching underneath the front of her hips. Her upper thighs resting in the crooks of his arms, she holds her breath in anticipation, as he wraps his hands up around her lower back and eases her toward him just slightly.

The bedroom's glow shimmers delicately across her flesh, sodden with both prior ecstasy and renewed longing. At last able to, he leans into her and runs his lips over her inner thigh, relishing the remnants of her more recent release.

The frustration amassed within her flows outward in a whimper as he sweeps higher, nearer, and then presses his mouth to her at last. She sighs her relief and instinctively sways backward. But, holding her more securely within the cradle of his arms, he restricts the range of her motions and obliges her to rely solely upon his will.

His initial ministrations, meandering in both pace and aim, do more to further excite than to satisfy. Tortuously, he rolls and weaves through her lush folds. Languidly, he circles and skims around her swollen nub. She bites down on her lip and huffs something unintelligible in a pleading tone. In defiance of her wishes, however, he returns to her backside and thighs, lavishing sultry, nibbling kisses upon them.

Incensed, her body besieged by an oppressive confluence of desire from within and denial from without, she grips the sheets still harder and strains to shift her hips enough to convey to him her anguish. Nevertheless, despite the fatigue that he's ceased trying to rationalize away, he summons what's left of his vigor and resists her exertions.

If only she had the presence of mind to scream, she would. She'd scream. She'd rant. She'd tear into him for putting her in such a position. For asserting his concern for her in so exacting, so gallingly effectual a fashion. For caring for her too deeply and too abidingly to simply leave her to her insecurities. But in the end, done in by the war she's been fighting for far too long, she resigns herself to the only option left to her, and gives in.

Her surrender, earnest and abject, manifests in precisely the utterance she came just short of making minutes ago:

"Clark…"

That breathless expression - spoken, as he's all too aware, for the first time tonight and for the first time since their impromptu public tryst during the afternoon - carries with it all the meaning for which he was hoping. For inherent to her submission is not only the exposure of that which rages, not merely smolders, beneath her surface, but also of why and for whom it burns.

His name hangs in the air only briefly, before her pangs are allayed by his mouth centering over her and melding against her. Swirling forth into her billows, he starts directly to offering her the intent, rhythmic touch that he no longer has any reason to withhold. She mewls and she croons, her former displeasure all but forgotten as she revels in the raptures of being subjected, subdued, and yet nonetheless adored.

In time, he varies his manner, withdrawing from her depths and dragging his lips upward toward a halo of smooth, constricted skin. She tenses, however only at first, and soon relaxes into the unanticipated, though not unwelcome, sensation. Persisting, he glides his tongue across her, while running one of his hands from around her lower back to down beyond the front of her hips. As he curls his palm against the span of her flesh and begins softly, steadily kneading her, a sweltering tremor radiates up her spine and down her legs, and she moans, "God, Clark…"

The litany of torrid sounds and words from her lips urges him onward. Increasing his pressure, his tempo, he moves over her and against her with undeniable purpose.

Twirling and twisting... Around and about… Over and again…

"Aah…"

As her back bows deeper and her hips lift higher, he relishes his recognition of how far gone, of how achingly near she is. Just as her release seems imminent, though, he's confounded by her suddenly slipping out of and away from the circle of his arm. Still, by the time he's regained his bearings, she's already begun turning over into a seated position, and his momentary confusion as to her purpose is almost immediately surmounted by his prevailing preoccupation. Rising up onto his hands and knees, he pursues her farther up along the bed, promptly resettles himself between her legs, and lowers his mouth to her inner thigh.

She says his name to entreat his attention, but her heady tone and ragged breaths give her voice an accent that hastens, rather than halts, his ascent. Resorting to another means, she hooks one hand around his neck and the other around his upper arm, and tugs.

The return of her touch to his skin has an overpowering effect on his psyche, and he pauses at the line where her groin ends and her margins begin.

"Come here," she implores, pulling impatiently, though still ineffectively, at his burly heft. "I want you with me."

Her profession jolts him to his core, stirring and elevating every one of his baser instincts. Impelled from within, he lets her drag him up her body, and he meets her lips with an insistence that nearly sends them tumbling back into the headboard's partially upholstered surface. She answers his urgency with her own, running her tongue across his as he wraps an arm around her back and slides a hand up the side of her thigh. She moans, delighted by the traces of her sweetness and spice on him, only to have that lilting intonation morph into a gasp when she feels her hips being hoisted off of the bed.

Advancing on her further, he presses her into the headboard with something of gentleness, but more of aggression. His torso flush with hers, her legs about his waist, their ensuing moments transpire in a heated exchange of roaming, grasping hands and eager, demanding mouths. She pulls him tighter to her, raking her nails across his scalp and drawing his lower lip between her teeth. When she bites down, he responds with an ardent groan, and, without thinking, grinds against her. His subtle shift, however, aligns them unmistakably and poises him at her precipice.

Her eyes fly open in alarm and she tears away from their kiss. Her abrupt recoil startles him, stopping him in place and commanding his gaze. She watches him as he reads her expression, as the understanding of the posture they're in strikes him, and she immediately regrets having neglected to think far enough ahead to prevent herself from having so brusque and discouraging a reaction.

His face falls, partly from his fear of the unknown end to which his impulses could've carried him, partly from his shame in having come so close to chancing her well-being in spite of that deep-seated misgiving. Awkwardly, he readjusts the positioning of his lower body, and, through his heaving pants, starts to pose an apology of some kind. But, anticipating him, she clamps a hand over his stammering mouth, and hurriedly tells him, "No. That was my fault. You didn't do anything wrong. We're fine."

Still doubtful, he tries again, prompting her to cut short his contrition with a kiss. He hesitates at first, but soon concedes to his reliance upon her convictions.

After several quieting moments, she retreats a bit and waits for his eyes to find hers. When they do, she swears to him, "I won't let us. Not before we're ready. All right?"

Her tender assurance reins in what remains of his present anxiety. Comforted by the knowledge that she'll never lose sight of the line that he may sometimes fail to perceive, that she'll never allow him to do anything destructive to his trust in himself, he nods in reply to her question and reaches for her lips.

"Sit back," she says, before he manages to reinitiate their contact.

He follows her instruction, bringing her with him as he rocks back to seat himself on his heels. The slight wavering of his arms as he supports her weight doesn't escape her notice, and as she scoots up his thighs, pressing the pads of her feet into the bed on either side of him, she takes a second to glance over his haggard appearance. Upon finishing her perusal, she circles an arm around the back of his shoulders for leverage, and skims her free hand across his chest and down his stomach.

His groin tenses as she gradually sways up along him, while running her thumb through the dribbles of moisture spilling out onto the swollen height of his rigidity.

"Can you?" he hears her ask him, as she inches back down the underside of his length. "…Again?"

A tinge of uncertainty flits across his eyes as he considers her overture. But when her long, slender fingers coil around him and her sodden, satin folds glide along him once more, his want trumps his reason.

Tilting her chin down, she receives with unfettered zeal the kiss that he offers. And though her tenor initially takes him aback, he quickly reciprocates, digging the fingers of one hand into her thigh and rubbing those of the other down the cleft of her backside.

She presses her tongue farther past his lips, while rolling her wrist and rocking her hips.

"Mmm…" he moans, as the compounding of her sensations rapidly begins to overwhelm him.

His arms tremble and his jaw shudders. His skin perspires and his muscles inflame.

Beset by both rhapsody and weariness, he breaks their kiss and cleaves to her in so fiercely a manner that he can't help becoming wary of hurting her. And yet, to his relief and wonder, his apprehension is met with nothing but tangible signs of her pleasure: The further heightening of her temperature and dampening of her flesh. The punctuating of her tempo and quickening of her pace.

His doubt dispelled, he lowers his mouth to her chest and re-secures his hold on her. At first, she dismisses his altered grasp as a passing reflex; however, when she feels him not only pulling at her hips as she pushes forward, but also pushing at them as she pulls back, she realizes what he's doing - helping her, guiding her. And although the mode of his response isn't enough to overtake her command of their desire, it nonetheless convinces her of the extent of his abandon.

As the gravity of that gesture - that open testament to his determination to defy his own limits and that tacit reaffirmation of what's motivating him to do so - settles upon her, she senses both the brimming of her emotions and the approaching of their end.

Without any disruption to their rhythm, she takes her hand from him, laces her fingers through his hair, and draws his mouth back up to hers. As the fire between them glows ever brighter, ever hotter, she kisses him soundly, deeply - until he pants her name against her lips.

"I know," she huffs in commiseration, letting him drop his brow to the front of her throat. "I know…"

Any further exchange they may have shared manifests instead in cries of ecstasy, as their mutual release extinguishes the burning tension at both of their cores.

Racked, he melts into her, wrapping his arms as far around her as he can and resting his cheek in the curve of her shoulder. Still, even as he strains to catch his breath, the euphoric flush of satisfaction spreads throughout his body, soothing and sedating him so much so that he doesn't notice the bit of wetness falling onto the nape of his neck and rolling down his back.

A subsequent droplet, however, makes its way over the welts on his upper arm, and he twitches a little as its salty composition stings his broken skin. Vaguely perplexed by his reaction, he gathers what he can of his wits and idly rummages through his haze for an explanation. When he feels several of her fingers slipping out of his hair, though, he instinctively opens his eyes and follows her hand as she lifts it to her face, where he immediately discovers a far more imperative cause for his concern.

Even without directing her eyes toward him, she can tell from his protracted silence that he's gazing upon her in disbelief. Nevertheless, she steals a quick glance at him to confirm her suspicion, and, upon perceiving exactly that which she expected, she turns away from him, sighing, "Oh, please, don't look at me like that."

His chest still heaving and his heart still racing, he tries as speedily as possible to get his mind around what he's witnessing. But, the implausibility of the sight before him continues to astound, for never before has he beheld such tears from her - such a quiet and continuous overflow of not only her regard for him, but also of her grasp of his for her.

"Or, maybe you should, right?" she weakly suggests, wiping away the thin stream flowing over one of her cheeks as her mortification becomes all the more unbearable. "You didn't exactly fall for someone who does this kinda thing."

Her despairing notions redouble his efforts to think of a reply reasonable enough to console her. Although, no sooner does he conceive of a suitable reassurance than the familiarly stricken expression beginning to oppress her countenance thoroughly displaces his sense with his sensibility. Releasing her back, he reaches for her hands and pulls them away from her face, while she utters the last of her despondence that he's prepared to abide.

"I'd totally dump me if I were you. Nobody should be stuck with someone they don't recognize anymore -"

The concluding words to her rambling thought never take audible form, as he cradles her cheeks and brings her lips down to his. The impulse to refuse him instantly seizes her, and she tenses noticeably. But, whether out of sympathy for him or for want of solace for herself, she braves her initial response long enough for an ensuing one to prevail, and, once able to, she accepts his kiss as best she can.

Her tears trickle over his fingers and down his wrists, while he focuses into every caress, every touch with which he attends her the sentiment that even the loveliest of settings and the noblest of vows still only ever approximate.

When, after some time, he starts to gradually withdraw from her, he does so with the hope for a resolution that has eluded them over and again since she fled their first embrace, with the hope that she'll absorb what he's tried so earnestly to convey. In spite of that wish, though, all that's left in his power to do is wait…

At last, she opens her eyes to meet his. And in so doing, the most basic of truths becomes clear. She now feels what it means to have trusted herself with someone as considerate of her, as generous toward her as he: …She doesn't have to hold back. In his arms, she is free from restraint, free from any fear or reservation in sharing the most intimate of moments with her true, great love…

A man who would never betray the high esteem in which she holds him…

A man who would never ask of her for a night what he couldn't offer her for a lifetime.

As she exhales away her insecurity, he watches the depth of her affections color her features, brightening her skin and softening her eyes. He beams, knowing beyond question that she finally understands, and leans in to press a kiss to each side of her tear-streaked face and to envelop her in a lengthy hug.

When he eventually pulls back to regard her once more, she finds herself surprised by, though not in the least resistant to, the prospect that's begun to take shape in her mind. In the past, she's scarcely contemplated such a notion, even when he himself, almost always inadvertently, has alluded to it. But, for the first time, the image of the life she'd have them share appears plainly before her, and she parts her lips, having never wanted to ask him anything more than that which she now longs to.

Just as she's on the verge of giving voice to her question, though, it dawns on her that she's no token to present, no declaration to make, and she stops herself short. His expression changes somewhat, communicating his curiosity about whatever it is that she intended to say, and, for another second or two, she toys with indulging her caprice, regardless of any niggling qualms.

In the end, however, she apprehends the position she'd be putting him in by acting in advance of their relationship's final consummation, and thus decides against rushing something that she'd very much like to get just right. After all, she muses to herself with a smile, he deserves nothing less.

Her gaiety has a mirror effect on him, occasioning him to disregard his scratchy throat, and he grins, "What?"

She takes a long breath, setting aside her whimsy for the time being, and then changes the subject to his evident exhaustion. "How are you?" she checks, glancing over him.

He delays responding in order to give her a probing stare, but when she deliberately ignores him, he lets the matter of her prior ruminations rest. Peering around the rumpled surface of the bed, he finds one of the spare hand towels and picks it up, telling her, "I'm good."

"You're still kinda warm."

"So are you," he replies with a smirk, after having reached off to the side and dipped the cloth into the basin on his nightstand.

"My normal isn't your normal," she rejoins, watching him direct his heated gaze at the towel. And though happy to see that his abilities haven't been impaired, she persists, "C'mon. Fess up."

"I'm fine. Honest." Then, as he carefully wipes the steaming fabric along her inner thighs and lower stomach, he gradually admits, "I just think I'm… Well, I may be just a little… run-down."

She snickers, "You mean 'tired'?"

"I mean 'run-down.'"

"We didn't drain your solar battery, did we?"

"I don't think so. I'd be unconscious if it was that. This is different."

As he folds the towel over and swabs it across his own skin, she mulls his both audible and visible state of fatigue. Moments later, he looks up at her in confusion when she starts sliding off of his lap.

"Hold on. Where are you going?" he asks, discarding the towel onto the small heap of other soiled items on the carpet.

"To get you something to drink. And you should probably eat too."

He extends an arm around her back to slow her down, claiming, "It's okay. I'm not even…" As the thought he expected to dismiss occurs to him, though, he trails off, registering a sensation he's rarely ever experienced.

"You are, aren't you?"

"…Yeah, I guess I am."

"Which means you need to rehydrate and refuel," she triumphantly quips, continuing to move toward the edge of the bed. "You'd know that if you ever had to work out a day in your life."

"Okay, fine. But stay here and let me do that."

"Why?"

"Because I'm asking nicely."

"Doesn't count this time."

He chuckles to himself, while grasping her waist and wondering where she gets her energy. "Would you just hold still, please?"

At his request, she stops her progress and turns back to him.

He quietly laughs for a few seconds more, using the interval to run his hands over her shoulders and his fingers through her hair. When he's finished, his face assumes a more solemn expression, and he inquires, "How do you feel?"

"Terrible. Just awful. Probably the worst that I've ever felt before."

"Lois -"

"- I couldn't be better," she says, interrupting him with a light kiss. "Scout's honor."

Pleased by her reply, he smiles. But, all the same, he begins his next query with halting unease. "Well, um… Was anything… I mean, is there anything that you weren't quite…"

"Really? Right back to the humble routine?"

"I'm serious."

"Of course you are," she retorts, pulling him to her. "And it's adorable."

He sighs in defeat as she teasingly dots her lips around his face. "Do you want me to get you one of my shirts?" he offers, once she draws back.

"Why would I want that?"

"If it'd make you comfortable."

Giggling, she nudges the side of his leg with her foot, and insists, "Stop fussing and go fix us a snack."

Out of habit, he mutters that he doesn't fuss, while making his way off of the bed and grabbing the red garment spread over part of it. She follows him with her eyes and rolls them when he wraps the large drape of material around his waist, covering his lower half.

"Fair warning: I won't always let you get away with that."

His cheeks redden ever slightly as her comment reaches his ears, and, in silence, he goes about foraging through the items they left near the pallet. By the time he returns to her, he's piled a dish with all the fruits, almonds, pretzels, and ganache that it could contain, and stored away the remaining foods.

As he crawls back onto the bed, she notices him peeking at the raised ridges on his shoulder and very nearly smiling at them.

"You're happy about that?" she intuits, grabbing the chilled bottle of water in one of his hands.

He shrugs. "I just always figured this sorta thing couldn't happen to me. Not when I'm myself, anyway. If you would've told me yesterday that -"

Her jaw slackens in awe as he halts mid-sentence, deferring to a reflex that she can't recall having ever before seen from him - a yawn. After he's exhaled, they stare at each other for a beat, until she breaks in with, "Oh, my god. You really are tired."

At a loss as to how else to react, he laughs, prompting her to do the same. When their amusement subsides, she helps him to seat himself between her legs, and then eases him back with her as she reclines into the headboard.

They spend the next little while lounging about, eating and drinking together in an atmosphere of intimacy and serenity. Nonetheless, their quietude doesn't prevent him from noticing when the hand she's been aimlessly running across his scalp subtly takes up a more decided and mischievous approach, molding his damp locks into the style he finds ridiculous on him. "Very funny," he dryly states, plucking her hand from his hair and laying it across his chest.

Before returning his attention to their treats, though, he finds it drawn down to their entwined grasps and arrested by one spot in particular. For a moment, he almost forces himself to avert his gaze. However, upon further reflection, he recognizes that the obstacle that would've impeded the course of his thoughts just a few hours ago no longer seems so insurmountable. And without any further hesitation, he lets himself gauge the exact distance around the base of her fourth finger.

Halfway through their plate of desserts, she feels his temperature lowering to its usual degree and she thus turns his head in the direction of his upper arm.

As they watch his welts heal and fade away, she casually poses, "You know, maybe the kind of fuel you burn just depends on what you're using it for. Maybe you tap into more than just your solar power when you're worked up. That could explain the headaches you get from arguing. And why, nights like tonight, you can handle being really hot, but you still have to sweat."

"Regardless of the how, I think the why's pretty clear. None of that stuff happens to me when I'm with anyone but you."

She scoffs in feigned indignation and tilts her chin down to nip his ear. "So you're saying this is all my fault?"

"Something like that."

His sentiment stretches the corners of her mouth up toward her eyes and earns him a peck to his cheek. Hugging him closer, she leaves the rest of their snack to him and relaxes deeper into the cushioned surface against her back.

Some time later, at a volume so hushed that his hearing nearly triggers to pick it up, she addresses him by the name she's never used in private and seldom ever uses in public. Delighted by the sound, he forgets their last couple morsels, places the dish and the water bottle on his bedside table, and turns to face her.

"Yes, Ms. Lane?"

She chuckles at the satisfaction he receives from such a simple thing, but nevertheless hesitates before edging, "It's, uh… It's been twenty-four hours. Your off-day is officially over. You can turn your perception or whatever it is back on…"

Her roundabout mention bewilders him. Even so, he endeavors to maintain his levity, joking, "Are you trying to get rid of me?"

She shakes her head a bit and begins tracing his shield across his chest. "What I mean is, I understand why you spend most nights out and about. The world doesn't stop spinning, I get that and it doesn't upset me. You know that, right?"

"Of course," he replies, his voice low and sincere. "But we can always discuss it more if that's what you need…"

His solicitude reassures her, and she gently remarks, "You're sweet." Afterward, she steadies herself with a deep breath and reaches the end toward which she's been ambling. "I'm saying that even though I'd be fine on my own, I'd still rather you stay here with me. Just 'til morning, at least… Please, stay."

Initially, her intimation troubles him, as he wonders how she could suppose he'd consider leaving her by herself for even a second of so pivotal a night for their relationship. But, when he thinks the matter through once more, he grasps that she's making her gesture notwithstanding what must be her instinctive knowledge of his intentions, and every one of his emotions stir from the realization that she's finally able to ask him for that which only her recent revelation and release could've allowed her to - his time.

Quietly, he promises her, "I'm not going anywhere."

In the moments that follow, they share a long, lingering kiss, from which she withdraws only when she senses the activity of their day starting to take its effect on her. With a knowing smile, he arranges the area immediately surrounding them and helps her stretch out along their bed. Lying together, their heads resting upon her pillow and their bodies nestled underneath his cape, they bask in the calm of candlelight and in the glow of each other's warmth.

Closing her eyes, she cozies up to him a tad more, and softly hums her appreciation when he brushes a stray tress away from her cheek and then resumes rubbing her back.

He whispers his love to her and she whispers hers in return, feeling from his tone and his touch that he means to stay his own repose for just a little longer - at least until he's certain of her sleeping comfortably, peacefully in their embrace.

- FIN -


End file.
